


Within Without

by eleanor_lavish



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-14
Updated: 2005-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:20:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_lavish/pseuds/eleanor_lavish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Nicky's hell lasted more than a day?  How long would it take Gil to get him back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://consumedbywords.livejournal.com/profile)[**consumedbywords**](http://consumedbywords.livejournal.com/) posted an intriguing note in [](http://oh-no-nicky.livejournal.com/profile)[**oh_no_nicky**](http://oh-no-nicky.livejournal.com/) : What if that drape tie had never been recovered? What if Nick had been convicted of the murder of Kristy Hopkins? That bunny sunk in deep, and just won't let go.

 

Somewhere around nine months, Nick realized he’d stopped counting the days. In the beginning, it had seemed important, a way to keep track of time, and his sanity. But after nine months, it stopped mattering so much. The realization hit as Nick awoke, groggy, in the infirmary and realized he didn’t know what day it was. And that he really didn’t care. He hurt everywhere. He tried to blink at the buzzing industrial lights lining the ceiling, but his left eye was swollen shut. He did a quick rundown of his body—swollen eye, bruised wrist, his knee felt like it might have a few stitches, and… yeah. He stopped the rundown and turned his head away from the lights. Some things it just didn’t pay to remember.

“Stokes!” He flinched at the sound of his own name, and he chalked it up to the pain shooting through his back and his leg. He dimly registered a white coat and gloved hands. Same gloves they used back at CSI. As the hands prodded lightly at Nick’s cheekbone, he had the fleeting thought that this guy’s hands were too big, and nothing like Grissom’s. But then they hit a bruise, and Nick winced, and thought _Yeah, that’s Gris alright._ The Doc took a step back and sighed heavily. “I was hoping I wasn’t going to see you in here again, Nick.”

“Yeah, well.” _Me either, dickwad._

“You attract trouble better than any guy I know.” The Doc was trying to smile, but Nick didn’t get the joke. All he could think was that the Doc looked about twelve, and scared shitless.

“Yeah.”

The doctor’s face went deadly serious. “You’ve got to find a way to avoid these guys, Stokes. They keep gunning for you this way, I worry about the condition you’ll be in the next time they haul your ass in here.”

Nick turned his head away and busied himself counting the beds in the ward. It was better than listening to warnings about things he had no control over. The Doc may as well have told him avoid all contact with the _air_.

“Nick!”

“What.” He sounded petulant, and annoyed, and fuck if he didn’t care. He was going to get at least another day in the infirmary out of this, maybe more based on the pain in his knee, and he didn’t want to waste any precious quiet time listening to this bullshit. He barely kept from rolling his eyes as the Doc sighed again.

“Your eye should be fine in a few days, but we want to keep you here for at least 48 hours to keep you off that leg. Your other injuries…” Nick winced again, “well, they could have been worse. But you need to avoid… reinjuring the area.”

Well, fuck you very much. Nick snorted loudly and closed his eyes until he heard the Doc’s footsteps walking away. He shouldn’t blame the kid—on this rotation, right out of med school. Probably not what he signed up for. But if a prison doctor couldn’t actually say the phrase “You should try not to let your cell mates rape you again, Stokes, because they could do some serious lasting damage”, then, well. They should probably go work somewhere else.

Nick closed his good eye and drifted to sleep to the sound of a guy from Block 4 screaming as he came down from a nasty fix. Nick liked the infirmary.

**

Gil blinked blearily at the case file sitting on his desk. He knew he should be focusing, knew that Ecklie was already gunning for him, and would have the sheriff on him for the case results by morning. _You can’t rush the evidence, Conrad,_ he wanted to say. But Ecklie never really gave a damn about the truth. He gritted his teeth against the wave of anger that had come to be a part of his daily routine. Some days it was a gentle ebb and flow, working quietly with Sara or Warrick on a tough case, losing himself in the puzzle. Other days it threatened to overtake him like a tidal wave, slamming into his heart again and again and again.

Those were the Nicky days. The days when he caught Catherine wiping at her eyes, or witnessed Warrick slamming his locker shut with a curse or when he was forced to work with yet another in an increasingly long line of replacements. They were on Not Nick #4 now, and she was capable, and generally affable, and even had a background in entomology. And she wasn’t Nick.

She had already outlasted the others, and was into month five already. Gil had almost begun to like her, until he walked in on a joke she was telling in the break room, and everyone was enjoying it, even ‘Rick, and Nick’s laugh was missing.

It was irrational and childish and frankly he didn’t much care. His rationality had done this, had made him a trusting fool and an accomplice to the incarceration of not just an innocent man, but one of the most upstanding men Gil had ever had the privilege to know. He hadn’t appreciated it at the time, of course. You never do. Gil Grissom wished for a time machine to take him back to a time when he thought of Nick as too soft, or too empathetic. When he thought the kid smiled just too damn much to be thinking all that hard.

Nick’s smiles were rare enough these days. In fact, Grissom hadn’t seen one in almost a year. His visits to the Pen were fewer and fewer, and he knew why. And it ate him up inside that Nick might think he’d abandoned him, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t keep going forward, couldn’t keep hope alive that he could _fix_ this if all could see when he closed his eyes was… _That_ Nick.

The team saw it too, and Cath was the only one to visit him weekly anymore.

Warrick’s weekly visits had ended three months earlier. He’d found his way to Gil’s office looking stricken, and he could barely get the words out.

“He’s turning into them.” Warrick couldn’t hold his gaze, his green eyes glistening more from anger than sadness; anger at the senselessness of it all. Gil drank himself to sleep that night for the second time in a year. The last had been Nick’s first night in jail, when Gil was sure he’d never sleep again, and wondered aloud in his empty apartment if this was what guilt felt like, or was it mourning?

He supposed it was both.

But cases moved forward, and Gil pushed Nick to the corner of his mind for the evening with a heavy heart and focused on the death of a salesman named Morris until he’d turned the puzzle inside out and placed the file in his outbox.

He glanced at his clock; thirty minutes until the end of shift. It wasn’t enough time to start a new file, so Gil reached into his bottom desk drawer, pulled out the thick, tattered folder labeled simply “Stokes” and began rifling through pictures he could recreate in his dreams. Maybe tonight would be the night he finally saw it. Maybe tonight he’d fix this, and Nick could finally come home.

**

The second time Grissom came to see him had been awful. The third time had been worse. He wanted to tell Gris to just _stop_ already, it was done, finished, and Nick was here, and Kristy was dead. He knew who had killed her, and it hadn’t mattered because the evidence said it was him. His prints in her bedroom, his DNA on her body, his voice on her phone.

Looking back, Nick realized he’d lost his case the second he’d been let go from CSI for the arrest. After that, after cleaning out his locker with Warrick cursing a blue streak behind him and Catherine vowing that she’d fight this with everything she had, after passing Grissom’s office with his life in his duffel bag and no idea where he was going, it was all over.

Grissom’s reassurance the day before the trial began had been less than comforting. “Nick, just trust in the evidence. You didn’t do this, and the evidence will back you up.” There had been no direct evidence linking Nick to the murder. But that was bullshit, because Nick didn’t need to convince a scientist of his innocence. He needed to convince a jury of people who heard “cop sleeps with hooker, hooker winds up dead, cop has no alibi” followed by the “eyewitness” account of Kristy’s fucking _murderer_.

For the DA, it was an open and shut case.

The only thing he remembers clearly the day of the verdict was Gil Grissom’s face. The look was one of utter incomprehension. Poor Gil was finally getting a taste of how the world really worked.

Which might be why his visits to Nick were abysmal failures.

Catherine tried to play peacemaker. “He feels guilty, Nicky. He hides it by projecting righteous indignation at the system, but it’s guilt. He feels like he didn’t do enough to help you.”

_Well he didn’t, did he._ was Nick’s icy first thought. “There wasn’t anything he could have done, Cath,” is what he’d said.

But lying in his bunk at night, or shivering in the group shower, or sitting alone in the stone yard, baking in the heat of the Nevada afternoon, Nick thought maybe he was wrong. Gil Grissom was a fucking machine, and he might have found it, might have found that one thing that would have made the difference. He didn’t blame Cath, or Greg, or any of the other half a dozen CSI’s who’d examined the evidence. It was pretty irrefutable evidence, after all.

But he _didn’t_ kill Kristy, and he knew it, and so did Grissom. Nick thought of the night he’d laid awake six years before, scared of disappointing his idol on his first day with the LVPD CSI unit. He thought of the nights he’d laid awake thinking of Gil’s hands as he pulled truth out of the detritus of human remains, of his cold blue eyes narrowed in concentration, of his face as he figured out solutions to unsolvable mysteries. He’d thought other things too, on other nights. He still thought them, and Nick cringed inwardly every time his brain concocted a fairy-tale alternate ending to his current hellish life—one that included Gil Grissom on a fucking white horse, armed with facts and proof and protection. And it always ended with a kiss, just like in the movies.

But his life wasn’t a movie, and Grissom couldn’t come to his rescue.

He didn’t like to see Gil anymore, and every visit was torture on them both. Nick would ask about work, and Gil would try to answer without giving details of cases Nick had no right to know anymore. Gil would ask about Nick, and Nick would answer in vague niceties and skip all the bad parts. But Gil was watching him now, watching close at every visit, and he could see where Nick censured himself. He knew that Nick was leaving parts of his life in prison out of their conversations, and Nick couldn’t stand to look at him as he put the pieces together, and Gil couldn’t look back once he did.

He didn’t like to see Gil anymore, but that didn’t make it hurt less when he stopped coming.

**

“Cut her some slack, Gil.” It was said in a tone he was getting used to, but that didn’t mean he liked it.

“She was sloppy, Catherine. Did you want me to overlook her behavior?” Gil kept walking toward his office, hoping that he could convince Catherine he had better things to do than argue with her.

Apparently, Cath did not have better things to do. “Her _behavior_? She acted entirely professional out there. Unlike you, I might add.” She closed his office door behind her as she entered, and Gil sat wearily behind his desk. “You owe her an apology.”

“I was merely pointing out,”

“You were bullying and mean. I let it slide before, because those kids before were NOT ready for this job. But Marissa is a good CSI, and she needs training, not to be chewed out by her boss in front of a house full of cops.” Catherine perched on the edge of his desk and crossed her arms. She tilted her head to the side and raised her eyebrows. “Well?”

“Well, what, Cath?” He meant to sound exasperated, and was surprised when his voice sounded… hollow. Her expression softened immediately.

“Gil, you can’t keep doing this. First Ecklie,”

“Ecklie had it coming.” Gil felt his face flush at the memory of the day after Nick’s arraignment, and the smug look on Conrad Ecklie’s face.

“You _hit_ him, Gil! You’re lucky they just suspended you for the week, and didn’t _fire_ you!”

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing,” he replied hotly. Catherine’s reaction to the verdict had been one of sheer unmitigated rage, and even Gil had avoided her for a full day. If she’d been the one to see Ecklie gloating Gil had no doubt Conrad would have suffered much more than a bruised jaw.

“Fine, fine. But then the newbies, and Greg,”

“I apologized to Greg,” he defended, but he still glanced out toward the DNA lab.

Gil’s anger over Nick’s situation had engulfed him in the months after the conviction, aimed in sharp, stinging bursts at Catherine and Ecklie and Brass and the lab techs. Catherine felt the same anger, he knew, and she let him get away with his behavior for a few months, until she walked in on him berating a near-tears Greg Sanders for not being able to pull epithelials off a wet car seat. Greg and Nick had been great friends in the lab, and Nick’s absence was never more strongly felt then when Gil was standing with Greg, trying to decipher his pop culture references and keep up with his exuberant speeches. But that wasn’t Greg’s fault, and Gil had apologized more than once. He suspected Greg didn’t quite believe him yet.

“True,” Catherine’s voice snapped him away from sad lab techs and back to his office. “And I think you owe Marissa the same courtesy. She’s doing her best to fill unfillable shoes, Gil.” She raised her hand to stop any argument he might make. “She’s not Nick, and she isn’t going to be. But she’s capable and trainable and I _really_ don’t want to start from scratch with another newbie, alright? So make a peace offering. Today.”

She was up and out of the office without a backwards glance. Gil looked at the team roster and tried to figure out where Marissa Hanson would be at this moment. And then he wondered when Catherine had wrapped him around her finger, and he smiled.

He wandered into the print lab ten minutes later and suppressed a sad sigh as Marissa visibly tensed at his presence. Jaqui noticed too, and glared at him for a moment before returning her gaze to her screen. “Look, Dr. Grissom, I was just about to bring the print match to you, but I wanted to run it twice to make sure and…”

Gil cut her off with a light wave. “It’s alright, Marissa. I just wanted to talk to you about earlier. It’s not… It was an honest mistake, and I overreacted. And for that, I apologize.” He was just as surprised as Marissa to find it sounded sincere.

“Th-thank you, sir.”

“Grissom. Please stop calling me sir,” he added with a wry smile. She returned it tentatively before calling his gaze back to Jaqui’s screen.

“Well, Grissom, we have a match from the scene, but it’s not what we expected. It’s a Melody Ferris. She has two priors—one for possession, the other for prostitution.”

“She?” Gil couldn’t help but sound surprised. The break-in they were investigating involved a great deal of brute force damage. Damage he doubted Miss Ferris—who in her mug shot looked about a hundred pounds—could have inflicted.

“I thought it was strange too, s-Grissom, and so I had the underside of the armoire dusted again. And I found this.” Marissa nodded and Jaqui pulled up a partial on the screen. “It’s larger, so I’m thinking male. We were assuming it was a one-person smash-and-grab, but maybe they were working as a team?”

“Maybe… call Brass and have her brought in for questioning.” He turned and was almost out the door when Catherine’s nagging voice crept into his ear. He turned back for moment and added, “Nice job, Hanson.” He suppressed a smile at her beaming grin and continued back to his desk. _Have to watch how much praise you give her, Gil. Don’t want her getting overconfident._ But her grin had been so genuine and happy, it almost reminded him of… Nick.

He’d always watched how much praise he gave Nicky too. Always kept his distance from that blinding smile. He’d kept a distance from most of Nick, honestly, and he’d managed to fool himself into thinking it was for Nick’s own good. Nick Stokes had followed him around like a puppy his first year on the team, and Gil had found himself liking it. Nick worked hard, and learned fast, and was so good with people—even Gil. Nick would tease him, and Gil would find himself blushing in the lab, something he hadn’t done since grad school, over a schoolboy crush. And it was that thought that did him in, and made him take a step back and put a wall between himself and Nick Stokes. Because as much as Nick might be damn near perfect, Gil was certainly not. Nothing good would come of falling for Nick, and Gil wasn’t up for the challenge.

And he’d actually fooled himself into believing he’d nipped it in the bud, that his feelings for Nick were strictly friendly. Then Nick was gone, and the hole in his life pointed out what an idiot Gil really was when it came to feelings. Especially his own.

He glanced at his watch and figured he had at least an hour before Jim could track down Melody Ferris. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk.

**

It was hot in the laundry, and Nick had discovered that the guards and the prisoners had come to an unspoken understanding about the lights. To keep the heat down, the inmates working there had “accidentally” broken half the lights in the cavernous room, and the guards generally “forgot” to report it. Mainly, this was a good thing, as Nick couldn’t imagine sweating _more_ in there. But it also left dark corners, and the rumble of the machines covered any incriminating noises. Nick tried to keep an eye out for trouble, but it seemed like prison was no different from the real world—trouble just seemed to find him anyway.

“Wondered when you’d be back, CSI boy.” Nick’s fingers tightened around the bag he was holding but he managed to suppress a flinch. _Flinch and you’re a dead man, mijo_ \-- a lesson well learned in his first few months. His still sore back spasmed from tension as he slowly turned.

_Keep it nonchalant, Stokes. Don’t provoke him._ “Hey Carlos.” He kept his face blank.

Carlos Monongya was a Big Man in the joint. Half-Mexican, half-Navajo, he was a gang leader (“former” wasn’t exactly the right word), a drug runner, and had been convicted of two murders, though the word on the inside was that he was responsible for at least seven other unsolved murders in the Vegas area. Carlos did nothing to dispel the rumors.

“You like the little present I gave you?” Carlos gave him a sickening grin and nodded at Nick’s bandaged shoulder. “Not gonna forget me now, mi bonito, eh?”

Nick’s face flushed and he struggled to keep his breathing even. _Just go with it, Nick. Just let it roll off. He just wants a reaction._

Carlos took another few steps forward, leaning in and whispering “You know what that means, right? It means I _own_ you, boy.” For effect, he reached out and poked roughly at Nick’s shoulder, the bandage covering a rough tattoo of a coyote skull. It was Monongya’s mark, and Nick had been branded. Monongya had called it an “anniversary present”. One year in hell. Only twenty-four more to go.

Nick took an unconscious step back and closed his eyes when his back hit the wall. _This is not good, Nicky boy. Not again._ He opened them when he felt Carlos’ hand on his neck, glancing about wildly for a guard.

But there was never a guard.

“Turn around.” Carlos’ voice was menacing in his ear, and Nick did flinch this time, and Carlos smiled.

“N-no. No, man. It’s not,” but Carlos’ hand tightened minutely around his throat and he shut up fast.

“We can do this here, or I can bring the boys around and we can do it later.” Nick sagged against the wall. “Either way, I’m taking my piece.”

He wanted to fight, wanted to kick Carlos off of him and pound his face into the concrete floor. But he’d tried that once, and only once, and Carlos had returned the next day with “his boys”. That infirmary stay had been the worst. He heard the voice of the night Doc now, older and sadder than the others in the ward, telling him _”sometimes, son, its okay to lose a battle. The less you struggle, the less they can hurt you. Just let it happen, and open your eyes the next morning.”_

Nick blinked angrily at the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He wasn’t going to fight, but he would be damned if he was going to cry. He turned slowly toward the wall and closed his eyes as Carlos yanked his pants to his knees and entered him roughly. He pictured geese in V-formation, flying south. He pictured sparrows and egrets and penguins and the hummingbirds he used to see on his aunt’s farm.

He pictured vultures, and tasted blood where he’d bitten through his lip to keep the tears from falling, and he realized he was forgetting what it was like to be free.

**

“Grissom!” Marissa’s voice cut into the middle of the autopsy and Al Robbins looked up expectantly.

“Can this wait, Marissa? We’re in the middle of something,” but she cut off his annoyed reply with a frantic wave to Gil.

“I wouldn’t normally interrupt, but Catherine says you need to hear this. Now.”

“Hear what?” Gil was genuinely confused. Catherine had taken over the B&E case when Gil had been called to the scene of a woman who had apparently died of starvation in a house full of food. Not anorexic, according to Al Robbins, and not found bound in any way. A fascinating case and Marissa was…

“Melody Ferris is rolling over on her accomplice. She says she wants protection, though. She says he’s killed girls before.”

“That’s up to Brass and the DA, then. I don’t see how I…”

“She said his name is Jack Willman. Cath said you’d know what that means.”

Gil almost tripped over Doc Robbins and the DB in his rush to get out of the morgue, Marissa hot on his heels. He barely registered her confusion, or Al’s sharp intake of breath at Willman’s name.

Jack Willman.

The man who for all intents and purposes put Nick behind bars. The man whose testimony had been damning beyond repair.

The man who had really killed Kristy Hopkins.

Gil reached the interrogation room and had his hand on the doorknob when he felt a strong arm jerk him back. He looked down to see Warrick’s hand gripping his arm tightly.

“Don’t.”

“’Rick.” Gil hadn’t meant for his tone to sound that threatening, but he didn’t apologize for the low growl.

“This needs to be done right, Gris. Let Brass do his job. If we don’t do this right, it’s all over.”

He saw the anguish in Warrick’s eyes, and took a deep breath as his racing mind slowed to process the situation. _If Melody Ferris knows Willman killed before, she might have knowledge of Kristy’s death. If Willman was stupid enough to let her know any details, we might actually be able to overturn Nick’s conviction. But only if we do it completely by the book._

Gil nodded minutely at Warrick and followed him into the observation room. Behind the glass, Jim Brass and Catherine sat facing a small, bruised blond of no more than twenty-five. She was scared, and defensive, but if she hadn’t been in the game too long they could still convince her to look out for herself, and to do the right thing at the same time. Catherine’s face was stony with practiced nonchalance, but Gil could sense the tension thrumming through her. He bet she could feel his too, on the other side of the glass. He registered Sara and Marissa entering the room behind him and nodded, not looking away from the small girl at the bare table. There was only one case tonight.

He watched Brass choose words carefully, handling her with great care.

“Ms. Ferris. I understand Mr. Willman coerced you into helping him break into Brian Anderson’s house?”

She nodded silently.

_Small steps, Jim._

“How exactly did he coerce you? Were you threatened?”

“Yeah. He- he said that if I didn’t help him get in to the house, he’d…”

_Don’t push. Don’t put words in her mouth that the DA can toss later._

“What would he do, Melody? It’s okay. You can tell us.” Cath’s reassuring voice seemed to calm her.

“He said he’d kill me. He said I should believe him, that he’d killed his girls before for getting out of line.”

“So Mr. Willman was your… employer?”

Melody snorted. “I guess you could call him that. Don’t get no decent health care with him, though.”

“And you believed him. Believed that he would kill you.” Jim was almost kindly.

_That’s it. No bad cops in this room. She has to tell us everything, or none of it matters._

“He said… he said he’d gotten away with it before, and he could do it again. Said last year, he’d killed one of his girls who tried to go out on her own. I tried to tell him I wasn’t gonna do that, that I just didn’t want to steal anything from this guy… “

“Did he ever mention the name of the girl he killed before? Last year?” Cath’s voice had an unexpected edge to it that made them all wince, including Melody Ferris. She took a slightly stuttered breath and tried to cover. “I mean, did you know this girl personally?”

“Well, no…” Melody was still eying Cath warily. “But he said her name was… Kelly? Katie? Something like that.”

_Come on, Melody. Come on. Give us something here._ Gil felt his fist shaking at his sides—a combination of adrenaline and anticipation and terror.

Melody looked at Brass with a sudden flash. “He said you wouldn’t be able to protect me. He said he could work the cops better than the johns. He said he’d even gotten a cop to take the rap for killing that girl, some dumb fuck who’d been sleeping with her off the books. He even testified against the guy. You can’t protect me from shit. You want Jack so bad, you had better make sure I don’t see him, ever.” Melody either didn’t notice the abrupt change in the atmosphere of the room, or she didn’t know what to make of it. She sat back in her chair and folded her arms.

Gil felt the whole world spin slightly, and blinked at his reflection. Brass nodded toward him with a guarded half-smile as Sara let out a long, slow breath. Warrick slammed his fist into the door with a muttered “Gotcha, you bastard.” Catherine got up from her chair and walked calmly from the interrogation room. She joined them a moment later and burst into tears the moment the door clicked shut behind her, Warrick gathering her into his arms.

Marissa Hanson stood in confusion in the corner. “What… I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

Gil couldn’t take his eyes off of Melody Ferris. She was a goddess, their very own angel of justice. “It means Nick is coming home.”

He reached a shaking hand behind him to clasp Catherine’s and swallowed hard at her joyful answering sob.

**

Catherine’s visits were Wednesday morning without fail, so Nick was surprised when one of the guards came out to the yard on a Monday afternoon with the message that he had a visitor.

Half an hour and one no-longer-embarrassing search later he sat in the hard plastic chair and looked through the glass. At Grissom.

God. Grissom’s eyes were bright and Nick could tell his knee was shaking under the table with barely contained energy. He watched silently as Grissom stilled, his gaze darkening as he noted the bandage on his left hand. Nick shifted in his seat, tugging at his collar so Gris wouldn’t see the dark line that snaked up his shoulder to his neck. Grissom picked up the phone and nodded for Nick to do the same.

“Nicky.” Grissom’s voice sounded thick, clipped. “What happened to your hand?”

“Fight.” No use lying about that.

Grissom was quiet for a moment. Then, “Did you win?”

Nick’s jaw tightened as he fought to keep his face neutral. _Just like old times, Grissom._ And he remembered that lying to Grissom had become routine, like breathing. “Of course. You should see the other guy.”

His smile was too thin, he knew, and Grissom would see right through it. The quick fire that had sparked in his belly at the sight of Grissom’s face was quickly subsiding to the slow burn that he had come to associate with Gil Grissom’s visits. _What the hell are you doing here, Grissom._

“What about your eye?”

“What?”

“Your eye. There’s a scar over it.” Grissom was doing a thorough check now, running down every visible part of Nick’s body, searching for clues. Before, Gil looking at him that closely would have made Nick’s pulse race, his breathing shallow. Now, he just shifted uncomfortably and tilted his head some more.

“Oh. That was a while ago, man. Don’t even worry about it.” How long ago was that? Five months? Not that it really mattered, but yeah. It was three weeks after Grissom’s last visit, and jesus, when did he start counting time like that? He cleared this throat and looked at Gil pointedly. “What’s up, Gris? Didn’t expect to see you.”

Grissom winced a little at his tone, and Nick was silently glad. Six months in hell without a word from him, and now Grissom shows up expecting a party? Nick was prepared to let him squirm; hell, prepared to just get up and walk out. But Grissom’s face was so… god. His eyes were gleaming suddenly, and Nick watched him swallow a few times, like he was trying to maintain some semblance of composure. He wasn’t doing a very good job.

“Grissom? What is it?” He leaned forward in his chair. “Did something happen?” Nick’s mind raced through worst-case scenarios of Catherine, Warrick, Sara, of guns, and crime scenes, and bad guys.

“We got him, Nicky.” Gil’s voice was rough, and a small smile played at the corner of his mouth.

“Got who?”

“Willman. We got him. B&E, manslaughter, perjury.”

“Manslaugher? What… Gil.” Nick felt hot suddenly, tight, like the walls were getting closer.

“We plead him out. He takes the B&E, and we reduced Kristy’s murder to manslaughter plus the perjury charge. Fifteen years. Not nearly enough, but with a signed confession… Nicky?”

He was shaking. He knew he was and he couldn’t stop it. The tears pricked the corners of his eyes and he closed them tight, half to keep from crying in front of Grissom, half to keep from waking up if this was a dream.

“Nick.” They jolted open at Grissom’s commanding tone. Grissom’s breathing was faster too, almost a pant on the other end of the line. He watched as Grissom placed a hand on the glass separating them, like he could physically pull Nick back to this moment. Maybe he could. Nick’s hand reached out of it’s own accord and covered Gil’s. It was as close as he’d come to touching the man in over a year, and Nick’s chest hitched at how much he missed it. Grissom held his gaze steadily. “You’re coming home.”

“When?” Nick whispered.

“As soon as the judge signs off on your release. Willman was the only thing directly tying you to Kristy’s death. With the signed confession, the conviction should be overturned in a matter of days. It’s down to paperwork, Nick.”

Grissom’s voice caught on his name, and Nick lost it. He felt the tears fall and he couldn’t look Grissom in the eye. He didn’t move his hand though, and he could feel Grissom’s solid warmth through the glass, his voice soothing him through the phone.

“Two days. Three, tops. Catherine called your parents, and they’ll be on a flight tomorrow. Nick?”

He nodded over the shuddering sobs.

“Just hang on a little longer, okay?” Nick heard the note of sadness in Gil’s voice, and when he looked up, Gil wasn’t looking at his face anymore, but at his neck, where the tip of a coyote skull reached out to curl harshly under his ear.

Nick wrapped his free hand reflexively around his neck and nodded again.

_Just a little longer._

**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Nicky's hell lasted more than a day? How long would it take Gil to get him back?

_Home._  He could barely believe it. Nick lay in his bunk, staring at the ceiling where cracks in the plaster let in tiny drops of water on those rare days when it rained. Gil had come for him. Part of him still thought it was a dream, but in his dreams Nick never had to wait for the damned paperwork to go through. He tapped his foot impatiently on the metal frame of his bed. Only a few more days, though. He could make a few more days.    
  
Gil had left a few hours before, as visiting hours ended. He could still picture Grissom’s face as he was led back toward the barracks, watching him with an intensity that made Nick blush. It was almost as if Grissom was trying to burn Nick into his memory.    
  
Which was stupid, because in a few days, he could see Nick as often as he wanted.  _Just a few days_ . Nick smiled to himself. It still didn’t seem quite real.    
  
“Nick?” The voice was friendly and punctuated by a flat Midwestern note.    
  
“Hey, Paul.” Paul was one of the few guards who treated Nick as though he were anything but a common murderer. Nick was pretty sure that Paul’s friendliness didn’t help Nick win the trust of his fellow inmates, but he didn’t much care. It was nice to be treated like a real human being.    
  
“I hear you’re goin’ home, man.”    
  
Nick sat up quickly. “How did you… who told you that?”    
  
“Night supervisor. Said your boss came by with some papers from the state. Told him to ‘expedite your release’ or something. Is it true?” Nick looked around quickly to see if they were being watched. He’d made a conscious effort to pull himself together before he was brought back here. If any of the inmates found out he was being released… well, they wouldn’t be too happy. They always thought Nick got special favors—Nick snorted at the idea-- and this? This would just be the final proof.    
  
“Yeah,” he replied very quietly, hoping Paul took the hint. “It should only be a few days.” It was amazing to say it out loud.    
  
“No, I mean… you really didn’t do it? Kill that girl?”    
  
Nick looked at Paul, with his blue uniform and badge and sidearm and wondered if he’d ever been naïve enough to think everyone in prison must be guilty. He guessed he had. Even a year ago, he had. His smile was real, but sad. “No, man. I really didn’t. Bad luck, is all.”    
  
Paul let out a low whistle and shook his head. “Man. That’s… that sucks.”    
  
Nick chuckled at the understatement. “You’re tellin’ me. Just, look. Don’t tell anyone, alright? About my release. I don’t want to jinx it.”    
  
“No problem, Nick. Whatever you say. Congrats, man.”    
  
Paul walked away to continue his rounds and Nick lay back on his bunk until lights out. He was happy, so incredibly happy, that he almost missed the nagging voice in the back of his mind reminding him that if  _Paul_  knew, others might too. Others who weren’t used to treating Nick like a human being. He pushed the voice out of earshot and dreamed of Gil Grissom on a white horse, and a sunset, and a kiss.    
  
The next day was blindingly, painfully hot, and Nick spent most of his time in the yard vying for space in the limited shade. He’d tried to avoid the yard for most of the day, but his cell seemed smaller than normal, with his body practically humming  _freefreefree_ . He’d gotten a call that morning from his mother, who apologized for not calling the second she heard, but she’d been crying too much to talk to anyone. His dad had been stoic as usual, but his voice was tinged with a roughness that made Nick’s throat ache.  _”We’ll see you in a few, son,”_  he’d said before he hung up, and Nick had made it all the way back to his cell before he’d let a single tear fall.    
  
The wariness of the night before hadn’t waned, but Nick stood out in the sun anyway, figuring he’d attract a lot less attention if he acted as though this was a normal day. There were daily rumors about who was getting paroled, or whose lawyer had managed to get a new trial date. Nick hoped his news, if it had leaked at all, had come down the grapevine as speculation. He accepted the clove cigarette offered by a fellow inmate (a habit he hadn’t had since college, but one that seemed silly to deny in prison), and leaned against the wall, squinting in the late afternoon haze. He looked up to see Paul waving at him as he took his post for shift, and nodded minutely in his direction.  _Don’t say anything, Pauly,_  he silently telepathed across the yard.  _Just like any other day, right?_   
  
He watched as Paul exchanged pleasantries with Jose, the day guard, until a large figure stepped into his line of vision. And another behind him. One by one, they made a towering wall between Nick and the guards. The brick behind him didn’t budge as Nick pressed himself flat against it. He felt Carlos’s presence before he heard him.    
  
“What’s this I hear about you flying off home, Bird Man? Can’t let you leave without a proper goodbye.”    
  
Nick’s stomach dropped.    
  
Only twenty-four hours, and he would have been home free.    
  
**    
  
It was a blessing from above that they had not a single 419 the entire shift. The whole lab was awash in gossip and giddiness and it was impossible to tell if any work was getting done at all.  _Nick Stokes is getting out._  Not coming back, because Nick’s job as a CSI was anything but assured, and Gil didn’t even know if he’d want it, but  _getting out, coming home…_  Warrick couldn’t even bring himself to glare at the B&E suspect they’d brought in for questioning, and Sara was smiling at everyone in her line of vision. Brass noted to Gil that he should say something to her, as it was starting to freak people out.    
  
“Grissom!” Catherine opened the door and Gil was hit with an audio assault of wailing guitars. Greg insisted on playing “Freebird” on repeat in the lab, as a tribute. And Catherine let him, which was enough of a happy response to make even Gil shake his head in wonder. “I’m heading to the airport to pick up the Stokes’s, and Warrick is on his way to the bakery for the cake. We’ll meet you at the hotel, okay?”    
  
“Hmm?” He looked up from the file sitting on his lap.    
  
“Me, airport. Warrick, cake. You, hotel. Got it?” She smiled indulgently.    
  
Gil nodded absently.    
  
“Gil. You can be happy, you know.” It was wry and pointed and very Catherine.    
  
“I am, it’s just…” Gil finished the sentence with a shrug. She sighed and pulled her purse higher on her shoulder.    
  
“Look, you’d better cheer the hell up. Nick’s release is at 9AM, and he’ll be in town by 11:00. Whatever’s crawled up your ass? Better dislodge by then, because he’s gonna need all the friendly faces he can get.”    
  
Gil knew his smile wasn’t as wide as everyone else’s, and apparently it hadn’t gone unnoticed. He’d wanted to tell Nick about the release himself, and no one had objected, but now he wondered if it had been a good idea. Six months… it had been a long time. Gil let his mind wander back to the Nick he’d seen in that room. He’d been closed, wary, and Gil was sure there were plenty of scars he hadn’t been able to see. But there was plenty of time for him to heal, and Gil knew Catherine was right. Nick didn’t need a mother hen, or a harried boss. He needed his friends—all of them—and Gil was determined that this time, he wouldn’t let Nick down.    
  
Gil smiled at Catherine. “Okay, Cath. I’ll be there with bells on.”    
  
“He won’t be looking for bells, just a hug.” She turned and began to pull the door shut behind her. “And I know it’ll be tempting, but try not to cop a feel in front of his folks.” She winked suggestively and walked off down the hall.    
  
After a full minute staring after her, Gil closed his mouth with a snap and tried to bring his focus back to closing the case in front of him.    
  
Like it had all night, his mind kept wandering back to Nick. The knowledge that in a few short hours he’d be able to _touch_  Nick for the first time in over a year made his stomach flip, and the fact that Catherine had probably been right to warn him about being appropriate made him blush crimson. Then he thought of Nick’s hand on the other side of that pane of glass, and the bandage on that hand, and the black line of a tattoo that had snaked out from under Nick’s collar, and the blood drained quickly from his face as he wondered how often other people had touched Nick in that year, and what that would mean for the sweet, lovely man he’d known before.    
  
He pushed the thoughts from his head with a shake and busied himself closing up his office for the day. Thinking of Nick in those impossible situations was only self-defeating. What Nick needed now was friendship, and warmth. And Gil was determined to give him as much of both as he could muster.    
  
The phone rang as he reached his office door, and he eyed it warily. Calls to his office phone were never good, but with the extenuating circumstances, he was pretty sure he could foist any new case onto days. He walked with annoyance back to his desk. “Grissom here.”    
  
Five minutes later, Gil was speeding on the interstate towards Desert Memorial Hospital with a sickening, twisted knot in his stomach and the thought that he really should learn to trust his first instincts.    
  
His first instinct on Nick’s first night in jail had been to hijack the patrol car bringing him to the Pen, and run south. He blinked hard at the sunlit road ahead and prayed he’d be given a chance to make up for that night, and all the nights in between.    
  
**   
  
Nick blinked twice at the ceiling before closing his eyes and letting out a slow, painful breath. It registered dimly that the room was bright, even though the lights above him were off, and he hurt everywhere. His mind was foggy, and thinking was like stumbling around at dusk. He knew he was hurt—his aching muscles, and a stinging pain in his left side proved that—but everything else was like glimpsing pieces of a puzzle. He could remember the yard, and Paul, and a wall of dark skin.    
  
The haze was clearing faster and faster, and Nick watched the scene replay in his head as though on fast-forward. He felt the panic rising as Carlos shoved him roughly against the wall, heard Paul’s voice calling to him, getting closer. He heard the sickening thud as Paul’s head connected with the concrete, saw the glint of the makeshift knife Carlos tried to bring to his throat as they struggled, and felt the slow, hot stickiness of blood trickling down his side.    
  
His breathing was fast and shallow, and he jerked awake fully as a strong hand gripped his own. “Pancho?”    
  
“Dad?” Nick blinked as a weathered face came into view, serious and soothing as ever.    
  
“You’re all right, son. You’re just fine, now.” Judge Stokes repeated in a calm voice until Nicky had a chance to take in his new surroundings. He wasn’t in the infirmary, as he’d originally thought. He was in his very own hospital room, his father standing at one side of his bed, his mother at the other. There was a figure near the doorway, just out of Nick’s line of sight. But he could see the shadow cast on the wall, all stiff shoulders and bowlegs. Grissom.    
  
He looked at his mother who seemed to be doing an admirable job of keeping back tears. “What happened? I remember the fight, and… Paul. How’s Paul?”    
  
She smiled and smoothed his hair down, her hand lingering on his forehead. He leaned instinctively into it, only later realizing that hers was the first kind touch he’d felt in a year. “Paul was pretty banged up, sweetie. He’s in ICU down the hall. You got pretty banged up yourself,” she cut herself off as her voice caught.    
  
“Son,” the judge squeezed Nick’s hand to get his attention. “You’ve been in surgery and recovery for nearly two days. Do you remember what happened out there?”    
  
Two days. And Paul… he remembered pieces. They’d started kicking Paul when he went down. Nick had screamed, pulled a few of them off before Carlos and his boys had rushed him. There was a weapon, and Nick’s instincts had taken over.    
  
“I was stabbed.”    
  
“In the side. Yes, you were. What else?”    
  
“There was a lot of blood. Paul’s, I think. And mine. And Carlos came for my throat and I think…” Nick’s entire body froze.  _Oh, God._  The pieces were falling faster now and he saw the knife, and Carlos’s face inches from his, mouth curled into a sneer. And he saw his own hand, stained red. “Is he? Oh, God, Dad.”    
  
His father’s face was proof enough.    
  
He couldn’t breath. He tried, his body pulling in huge gulps of air, his side screaming with pain at each one. But it wasn’t enough and he was drowning and all he could see was blood red and Carlos falling to the ground as his vision went black from the outside in.    
  
Suddenly, a hand gripped the back of his neck and squeezed tightly. “Nick!” Grissom’s voice was there, but Nick couldn’t  _see_  him. “Nick! Focus!” The hand squeezed again and Nick’s vision cleared enough to see Grissom’s face hovering above his.    
  
“G-Gris,” he gulped helplessly. “I d-didn’t…”    
  
“Nicky, focus on me, okay? Breathe in nice and slow. Everything’s going to be fine. Focus. You’re okay.” There was a sudden flurry of activity in the room and Nick latched on to the familiar sound of Gil’s hushed tones, and struggled until he was able to see again. Gil looked drawn and anxious and his eyes burned with something Nick hadn’t ever seen there before. But his outward calm was reassuring and Nick felt his breathing returning to normal.    
  
A nurse at his bedside was adding a solution to his IV, and Nick heard her admonish, “He can’t be riled up like that. Some of you people are going to have to leave, now.” His limbs were suddenly heavy and he sighed as the warmth of Gil’s hand slipped from his skin. He tried to tell the nurse that Gil was okay, that Gil should stay, but his eyes drifted shut as the sedative sped through his body.    
  
When he awoke, his parents were both still there, sleeping soundly—his mother on the empty bed across the room, his father in a chair in the corner. It was eerily quiet, and the sky outside his window was dark, tinted that shade of dawn orange he loved. Nick hadn’t been in a room this quiet since his last night in his condo. He’d had a sinking feeling that he’d never see the place again, and he turned down offers from Sara and Catherine, who wanted to come and stay with him the night before the verdict. Warrick hadn’t been that easily dissuaded, and he’d shown up at 10pm with a bottle of whiskey and a night off. Nick had savored just one drink that night, and he’d forced Warrick to sit through a litany of who was to get what if the verdict didn’t swing his way. He took it as a bad sign when Rick didn’t protest too much. He wondered who lived there now.    
  
Nick’s side was sore, and he shifted slightly in the bed, wincing at the loud creak of the mattress. When he looked back to the corner, his father’s eyes met his with a glimmer of grim understanding.    
  
“Hey, Cisco?” Nick whispered and his father got up gingerly and closed the curtain separating the beds.    
  
“What is it, son?”    
  
“Is he really?” he closed his eyes and took a deep steadying breath. “I killed him, didn’t I?”    
  
“Yeah, you did.” Judge Stokes was never big on mincing words.    
  
Nick had always found this particular trait strong, and almost endearing. But now, it felt like judgment. “He attacked me, dad. He just came out of nowhere, and,”    
  
“I know.” His dad took his hand and rubbed Nick’s arm in comforting circles. “You did what you had to do, Nicky. You did what you needed to stay alive. To help your friend.”    
  
His silence pushed his father to continue.    
  
“Your friend has some pretty serious injuries. They induced a coma until the swelling around his brain goes down. That son of a bitch barely missed your liver—they had you in surgery for three hours. One hundred and sixteen stitches, kiddo. Came through like a pro, though. Your momma was worried sick. And your friends wouldn’t leave the waiting room. The big guy—Warrick?—we thought he was gonna be trouble, but Catherine seems to be the one to look out for. Terrorized the whole staff, that one did.”    
  
Nick noticed his father wasn’t meeting his eyes and squeezed his hand gently. He only rambled like this when he didn’t know what to say, but felt like he should say  _something_ . Nick shared the trait. He noticed his father’s gaze flitting to his neck and felt his stomach turn. He’d forgotten it was even there. If they’d been anyone but Bill and Gillian Stokes, he could have waved it off as a prison flight of fancy, something he’d done to fit in. But his folks not only knew him, they knew prison and what happened there. They would have known on sight that their son had been marked. He felt his cheeks grow hot and pulled his hand back.    
  
“How long before I have to go back?” He felt his throat close around the words. Here, with his parents just feet from him, the idea of going back to his cell was almost unbearable.    
  
“Back?” The judge looked at him for a confused second before his eyes widened. He shook his head. “Oh, no, son. NO. You’re not going back. It was self-defense, and they’ll get that all straightened out.”    
  
“But,” Nick knew the release was in the works before, but now… he’d  _killed_  a man.    
  
“There are no guards outside your door, Nick. You’re free to go as soon as the doctors release you. Mr. Grissom raised hell about it when the sheriff said something about the paperwork needing more time. Release papers were delivered to the court’s office this morning.” His father smiled for the first time. “Your mom and I figure you’ll stay at the hotel with us until you’ve figured out what you want to do.”    
  
“Oh. I just thought. Okay.”  _No looking gift horses in the mouth, Nicky-boy._  He sat quietly with his father as the sun rose, listening to stories of the ranch, and his sister’s big plan to raise chinchillas, and his nephew’s new penchant for biting.    
  
**    
  
It had been five days since Nick woke up; five days since Gil had pulled him back from the brink of hysteria and seen the terror in Nick’s eyes as he processed what he’d done.    
  
Five days, and Gil could still feel Nick’s pulse racing in his hand.    
  
He’d been back just briefly the following day before he was wrapped up in a homicide at the Tangiers with Sara. Nick’s release had hit “an unfortunate snag” and Gil threw all of his anger and frustration at Nick’s condition into making damn sure the fucking paperwork was filed properly. Regardless of what had happened in that yard, Nick was sure as hell not guilty of murdering Kristy Hopkins. Catherine and Warrick stopped by the hospital after each shift and gave him daily updates on Nick’s condition. He’d been given a “make sure you stay off your feet as much as possible” bill of health, and at that very moment was heading to the Mandalay with his parents. Gil was lying in bed trying, and failing, to sleep. He was irritable and short tempered and he really just wanted to  _fucking see Nick_ .    
  
He held his hand up to his face and inspected it. There was Nick’s pulse, right there, under the spot where his thumb joined his palm. Gil sighed heavily and briefly considered smacking himself with said hand before letting it flop down on the mattress next to him.  _Maybe seeing him isn’t the best idea right now_ , he reminded himself for the hundredth time.    
  
Seeing Nick wasn’t the problem. Seeing Nick without a wall of  _glass_  between them was a world of temptation he hadn’t even known existed. The Stokes’s had arrived as Nick was being wheeled from the operating room, and Gil had spent the tense hours before that calling Catherine with the news, and trying to pull information out of passing nurses. He’d stood by the door after Nick came out of surgery, unobtrusive, but unwilling to leave. Catherine, Warrick, Sara, and even Greg stalked the waiting room until they heard Nick was out of the woods.    
  
Gil had tried to stay in the corner, but as he watched Nick’s panic level rise, he found himself unable to keep away. His bedside stunt had worked, but the experience left Gil shaken by two things. The first was the jolt he’d felt just _touching_  Nick. He’d expected something—butterflies, or something equally childish. But the sheer force of his reaction had taken him completely off his guard, and he’d struggled to breathe right along with Nick, willing his voice even.    
  
The second… well. The second was the look in Nick’s eyes before he came back to the room. Whatever he was seeing was horrific, and Gil watched as a piece of Nick was slowly buried by the weight of his memories.    
  
Nick Stokes hadn’t entered prison a murderer, but he’d left as one. And Gil couldn’t help but feel his own weighty guilt press down now harder than ever.    
  
Maybe that was why he still couldn’t bring himself to visit Nick. Even when every fiber of his being was urging him to just  _go over there_ , the haunted look in Nick’s eyes kept him rooted firmly to the bed. The last thing Nick needed was a love struck boss with a guilt complex complicating his life any further. Gil fell into another night of restless sleep, and awoke to the familiar sensation of Nick’s pulse under his fingers.    
  
Two days later, after a particularly heinous shift in which he not only had to wade into knee deep sewage, but also take a twenty minute barrage of criticism from Catherine about his reticence to visit with the Stokes family, Gil had finally managed to get home and into bed without hurting something. When his doorbell rang at 6pm, waking him from a less than sound slumber, he spent the entire walk to the door imagining scenarios that would dispose of the person on the other side without a trace.    
  
The door swung open with the force of a body leaning heavily on it, and Gil found himself with an armful of Nick Stokes.    
  
“Heya, Grissom,” Nick drawled as he tried unsuccessfully to regain his balance and ended up leaning half on Gil and half on the doorframe.    
  
Nick. Nick was here. And Nick was very, very drunk. Gil closed his eyes for a long second to try and sort out what the hell was going on, his skin suddenly thrumming at Nick’s close proximity. He had pretty much convinced himself it wasn’t a dream until he felt warm breath at his neck as Nick rested his head on Gil’s shoulder, and heard Nicky’s rumbled whisper near his ear. “Missed you.”    
  
He knew he shouldn’t do it, but he turned his head into the sound, just wanting to hear it again. Gil opened his eyes slowly and saw Nick staring at him from under heavy lashes.    
  
He cleared his throat with no little difficulty. “Nick?” He tried to shift Nick up and away. “What…”    
  
He was cut off by a low moan as Nick buried his face in Gil’s shoulder, one hand going reflexively to his side.    
  
“Oh, Christ, Nicky. You’re not even supposed to be out of bed yet, are you.” Leaning Nick against the wall of his foyer, Gil gingerly lifted his shirt to check the bandages covering his stab wound. The bandage was clear, so the stitches hadn’t torn. But Gil was reasonably sure that an afternoon of drinking was not what the doctor had ordered. He looked back to Nick’s face, his head tilted back heavily. “How did you even get here?”    
  
“Cab. Wanted to see you.”    
  
“Why?” He was genuinely confused. Of all the places for Nick to show up drunk, Gil would have placed this spot at the bottom of the list. He was sure Nick hadn’t ever been to his home before. How Nick even managed to tell the cabbie where to go…    
  
“Do you hate me?” It was barely a whisper, and Gil shook his head in astonishment. But Nick’s eyes were darker now, and wet, and afraid. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t, Gris. You gotta believe me. I didn’t mean to...”  _I didn’t mean to kill him._  It hung in the air between them, and an unbearable ache spread through Gil’s chest.    
  
“Oh, no. No, Nicky. I don’t hate you. I know you didn’t mean it.”    
  
As his throat closed around the words, Gil finally followed his instincts. He pulled Nick close, and held him firmly but gently, and tried to understand how, after everything he’d been through, Nick Stokes was still asking him for forgiveness. Like he’d done something wrong. Nick pulled back until Gil could see clearly the dark smudges under his eyes, and the small scar above one eyebrow.    
  
”Gil…” And he knew it was a bad idea, and saw it happening like a glorious train wreck in slow motion, but he couldn’t move as Nick drew closer and kissed him softly. It lasted only a few seconds, during which Gil didn’t even allow himself to breathe, but it was long enough to register that Nick tasted like bourbon and ginger ale and peppermint. When Nick pulled away, Gil thought wryly that if the feeling of Nick’s pulse under his hand was still evident after a week, the feeling of Nick’s lips on his own would be with him until the day he died.    
  
He held his breath a moment longer. Nick was drunk. Nick was not well. Nick obviously had no idea what he was doing.   
  
“Do your parents even know you’re here?”    
  
Nick was still leaning on him heavily, his voice muffled by Gil’s shirt. “’m not twelve, Gil.”   
  
He barely contained an eye roll. “I’ll take that as a no. I’ll call them and let them know where you are. First, let’s get you to bed.”   
  
“Thought you’d never ask.” Gil froze suddenly as Nick’s lips brushed the tender skin under his ear.   
  
“Uh,” Gil managed stupidly. “That’s…  _Jesus_ ” and he shuddered as Nick’s teeth grazed his jaw.   
  
He was prepared for anything but this. In every scenario he’d played out since Nick was released—hell, for the past year—  _he’d_  been the one begging forgiveness, unable to keep his hands to himself. Without fail, the Nick in these twisted fantasies would spend a good amount of time alternately loathing him or looking confused, or being sweet, kind Nick with a sad smile and shake of his head.  _”Sorry Gris,” he’d say. “I just can’t.”_   
  
But evidently, Gil didn’t know  _anything_ , because Nick was  _here_  and Nick was  _kissing his neck_  and Nick’s hand was slowly sliding up the back of Gil’s shirt to rest on hot skin. That contact was enough to snap Gil out of his stupor with a quick step back. Nick swayed for a moment, lost, before his eyes met Gil’s with a sickening, hollow look that made his stomach twist. Gil wanted desperately to step back into Nick’s arms, to fix whatever it was he’d just done, to kiss Nick better and damn the consequences. His body was screaming at him, but his brain was managing to scream louder.  _Stop. He’s drunk, and he’s hurt in more ways than you can count, and you’ve already taken enough advantage of the situation._   
  
“Come on, Nicky,” he managed, placing a steadying hand on Nick’s elbow and steering him into the house. “You’d better sleep this off.”   
  
Nick followed stiffly, shuffling his feet on Gil’s hardwood floors. When they reached the bedroom, he eased Nick down onto the bed, trying not to notice when he pulled jerkily out of Gil’s grasp as soon as he was able. He reached down and pulled off Nick’s shoes, placing them neatly by the side of the bed. Nick’s eyes were closed when he looked back up, and Gil sighed heavily as he rose and walked toward the door, shutting off the light.    
  
“’m sorry,” whispered a small voice out of the darkness.   
  
“No, Nicky. You never have to be sorry with me.” Gil’s whispered reply went unanswered and he closed the door softly.   
  
He called Judge Stokes, who was edging in on frantic when he picked up the phone, and made an appropriate excuse for Nick’s absence. He sat numbly on his back patio until the sun went down. Nick was still sleeping when he left, and Gil left a short note.    
  
_Nick—Make yourself at home._   
  
He hoped Nick would understand what it meant.   
  
**   
  
Nick awoke disoriented  _again_  and wondered if he’d been hit a few more times since he passed out. His head was throbbing almost as bad as his side.    
  
His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he took in the large oak dresser, the muted browns of the heavy drapes, and the stack of books on the nightstand. He peered at the spines.  _Halton’s Guide to Amazonian Beetles. American Journal of Toxicology._  Hiding at the bottom was  _The Secret Life of Bees._   
  
Nick suddenly felt sick.  _Grissom. This is Grissom’s house. This is Grissom’s bedroom._  The details of the evening before flooded him with nauseating clarity.    
  
It was dark out as he stood on the stoop, waiting for the cab to pick him up. He hadn’t want to “make himself at home”, beyond a trip to the bathroom where he barely resisted the urge to break his own reflection in the mirror. Glancing at his watch, he figured Grissom had left a few hours ago. Or maybe he’d left immediately, not wanting to risk another attempt by Nick to molest him. Nick groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. The aspirin he’d found in Gil’s medicine cabinet hadn’t kicked in yet, and he was still teetering on the edge of drunk. He felt sore everywhere, but mainly across his chest where he couldn’t quite get a deep breathe, and his throat, which felt hot and prickly. From the outside, they’d sound like symptoms of the flu, but Nick knew better. He’d kissed Gil. He’d  _kissed Gil_ , and Gil had said no, and put him to bed with eyes filled with confusion and concern and… at least it wasn’t disgust.   
  
It should have been. But maybe Nick was disgusted enough at himself for the both of them.    
  
The cab ride to the Mandalay was dark and quiet, and Nick tried to be reasonable. At least he had an answer now. Maybe that had been his subconscious evil plan all along. Gil didn’t hate him, but Gil didn’t want him either. And the relief of the first did nothing to dull the ache of the second. He hadn’t planned it. He convinced his parents to take a well-deserved long lunch while he napped, and he’d been left alone for the first time in a week. Lying in bed, his mind sadistically channel surfed between Carlos and Grissom. Carlos, with his wide jaw and the glint in his eyes that still sent a shiver down Nick’s spine. Grissom, who hadn’t been to see him since that day in the hospital. Carlos, bleeding on the pavement. Grissom, eyes bright as he assured Nick  _just a few more days_ .    
  
He’d found a bar off the strip and started drinking at noon, blessing the gods of Vegas. By the time he’d hit his fourth shot, Carlos was blurred into obscurity, but somehow Grissom just wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Carlos was dead. Carlos _deserved_  to die. But somehow Nick couldn’t shake the thought that he’d failed Gil. He’d failed everybody. And not just in that one moment. The whole year of hell, he’d been brought low, and the coyote that stared at him every morning from the mirror was a symbol of his failure. Warrick would have owned the joint by day two; Cath would have too, and Grissom. Grissom would never have let Carlos touch him; he’d never have let himself become nothing. Would never have had to resort to murder to set himself free of it.    
  
He just wanted the feeling of slime  _off_  him; wanted to feel something other than hot shame. If he could replace the feeling of Carlos’s hot breathe at his neck with Gil’s… maybe…    
  
Nick rested his head against the cool glass of the window as the cab headed back toward the garish lights of the strip. He’d managed to leave Gil’s with more shame than he’d arrived with, and wasn’t life grand. He could still feel Gil’s lips against his though, and the light stubble under his jaw. For one glorious second, Nick thought Gil was there too, with him, his voice thick as he whispered Nick’s name. And Nick thought  _At least I’ve had that_  before his mother met him at her hotel door with a desperate embrace.    
  
The knock at the door the next morning was unexpected. The Stokes’s were readying for a breakfast at the buffet, and Nick could hear a muffled conversation from his room in the suite.    
  
“Nick!” His father called to him with an unreadable tremor in his voice. For a horrible second, Nick imagined it was Gil at the door and paused mid-button on his shirt. But Gil hadn’t come to see him before, and he doubted he’d start being attentive now.    
  
He emerged to find his parents in quiet conversation with Jim Brass. He hadn’t seen Brass since sentencing, though his mother told him he’d come to the hospital one night while he was sleeping. Brass looked at him with a small smile, and Nick’s stomach dropped.    
  
“Hey Nick. You look good.” Brass was never very good at small talk. Nick stood unnaturally still as Brass cleared his throat and continued. “Look, this is… I heard from Catherine that you were thinking of heading back to Dallas with your folks at the end of the week. I was hoping this would all blow over by then, but your friend Paul still hasn’t woken up. There’s no easy way to say this, but. I gotta ask you to stay in town, Nicky.”    
  
His mother looked at Brass in confusion. “Is this about that Monongya person? But it was self defense. Obviously. You can’t think…”    
  
“Mrs. Stokes,” Jim sighed wearily and leaned on the flimsy hotel desk. “Everyone in this room knows it was self defense, but Monongya’s people are saying that Nick brought the weapon to the yard. Until I can find a witness that says otherwise, the state is investigating the death. I’m sure it’ll blow over as soon as the guard comes to, but until then, Nick has to stay in the state.”    
  
He looked at Nick with a worn expression. “I’m sorry, Nicky.”    
  
Judge Stokes opened his mouth to release the wrath of God on Jim Brass, but Nick put his hand up. “I understand. You’re just doin’ your job, man.”    
  
“But this is outrageous!” Bill Stokes looked almost murderous. “Detective, I want to speak with the person in charge of this investigation. I want to see…”    
  
“No, Dad.” Nick sat down heavily on the hard sofa. “Just let them do their job.”    
  
“After what happened the LAST time? I don’t think so!”    
  
“Dad, please.”    
  
His mother stood between them, and they both watched her smooth herself into the practicalities of this unexpected bump in the road. “Well, regardless, we’ll have to extend our stay. I’ll call the travel agent and rebook the tickets and then see about the room…”    
  
“No.” Nick said it so quietly his mother didn’t register until she’d begun talking about dry cleaners. She looked to her husband, but the judge had slumped against the door in a pose mirroring Brass.    
  
“But, Nicky, sweetheart…”    
  
“Go home, Mom. You’ve already spent over a week here, and I’m positive your caseload can’t handle another one. I know Dad’s can’t. Go home, and I’ll be fine.”    
  
“But you’re still hurt, Nick. You need someone to look after,”    
  
“I don’t need a babysitter.” He cut her off harshly, and was surprised that her hurt look made him angrier. He’d been nominally free for a week, but somehow on the outside with his parents casting worried glances past him every ten minutes, he’d felt more smothered than all his nights inside.    
  
“Well, you can’t just stay in a hotel until…” She blinked past Nick, wiping her eyes with the back of one manicured hand.    
  
_Until they arrest you again._   
  
Brass interjected from the corner and they all startled. Nick could see his mother had forgotten he was even there. “Actually, Mrs. Stokes, when this came up on shift tonight, Gil Grissom told me to let you know Nick is welcome to stay with him for as long as he needs to.”    
  
Nick was glad he was sitting down. Grissom  _offered his place_ ?    
  
“Well, good. That’ll do until I can straighten this all out.” His father sounded relieved, and it was back to business as usual. He shook Brass’s hand and saw him to the door.    
  
Nick did a mental calculation. Today was Wednesday. So he had two days in which to be swallowed whole by the earth before being forced to share living space with Gil Grissom. He unconsciously lifted his fingers to his lips. What the hell had Grissom been  _thinking_ ?    
  
The way his life was working out, maybe Paul would die by Friday, and take Nick’s testimony with him. The thought sank like a stone to the pit of Nick’s stomach as the truth wrapped around him. They were really investigating him. Not that he’d thought they wouldn’t. It was procedure. But if Carlos’s gang was as loyal in death as they had been in life…    
  
**    
  
_”He can stay with me.”_  It was quite possibly the stupidest thing that had ever come out of Gil’s mouth, and he’d been obsessing about it for two days.    
  
Why on  _earth_  would he think Nick staying with him would be a good idea? He should be staying with Warrick, or Sara, or Catherine.  _He shouldn’t have to stay at all._  A small stone had taken up residence in his stomach the night Brass told them about the investigation. Gil had been livid that they hadn’t been consulted on the Monongya case, but the case was under state jurisdiction. The shock that the state was actually going forward with an official investigation against Nick was enough to make Gil a bit dizzy. When Brass noted he’d have to stay in the state for the duration, Gil’s brain had been stuck somewhere between  _Not again_  and  _What next?_ . The offer slipped out before he’d even processed it.    
  
Now, wiping down his kitchen counters for the fourth time in an hour, his head had finally caught up with his heart. Of _course_  Nick being here was a bad idea. Just being in the same  _room_  with Nick was a bad idea. Gil could see all the ways this would go horribly awry building up in his mind’s eye. He was busy dwelling on number three (wherein he runs into Nick coming out of the bathroom after a shower and can’t stop himself from touching the expanse of bare skin in front of him and he ends up with a broken nose) when the doorbell rang. Gil glanced at the clock and sighed. The Stokes family was early.    
  
Steeling himself against the imminent onslaught of Texans, Gil opened the door. He found himself instead staring at most of his team, and stared stupidly before Catherine huffed in impatience and dropped a large box containing a sheet cake in his arms. She pushed past him toward the dining area, Warrick following with an apologetic nod. Sara followed him with bags of chips and a large veggie platter. Marissa and Greg brought up the rear, the newest members of the CSI team looking around in interest. After all, it wasn’t every day that one got to see the inside of their boss’s home.    
  
Gil closed the door carefully, balancing the cake on one arm. “Catherine…?”    
  
“Well,” she replied, and Gil got the feeling she used the same tone with Lindsey when she didn’t want to do something. “We never got to have our welcome home party and Warrick and I decided Nicky needs one now more than ever. So, we decided to surprise him!”    
  
“And you were going to let me know when?” Gil didn’t bother to hide his annoyance.    
  
“Now, actually. I also decided that you were the kind of guy who wasn’t big on parties, and I wasn’t going to risk you saying no, especially since I’m right.” She grinned at him wickedly over one shoulder while she and Sara and Greg laid out a spread of snacks and drinks and bottles of pretty decent liquor.    
  
Gil looked at her sternly. “You do realize you have to be at work in five hours, Cath.”    
  
“Well, I do, and Warrick and Marissa, but Greg has the night off, and Nick deserves a little fun. And you actually _requested_  the night off, which almost killed me. So,” she grabbed a bottle of vodka and mixed a neat drink that she handed to Gil, “drink up, Grissom! It’s gonna be a long night.”    
  
And she winked. Gil could have throttled her on the spot, and he could feel his cheeks flushing. Luckily, only Warrick seemed to have noticed, and he busied himself pretending to be interested in Gil’s butterfly collection.    
  
The doorbell rang again. Gil downed the drink in three large gulps.   
  
A few hours later, Gil sat on his back patio watching Nick and Greg and Catherine all try to tell Marissa about a case they worked on a few years before, when Nick had lost a bet to Greg and been forced to wear a huge cowboy hat around a building for a full week. Nick might have been embarrassed about it, but even at the time, Gil noted what a good look it was on him. Nick wore it with good humor and a slight blush, and Gil was disappointed when the week was up.   
  
He looked up when Warrick sat down next to him, handing him a glass of Coke he suspected was spiked. He gave Warrick a stern look. Rick just laughed.   
  
“Hey, man. Mine’s virgin,” he said, motioning with his own glass. “You can have a drink every now and then.”   
  
Gil looked at the glass and back to Warrick before taking a small sip. “I’m just not sure was a good idea.”   
  
“The party? Sorry for invading your place, Gris, but Nick’s having a good time. That’s what matters, right?”   
  
“Not the party. This…” and he waved his hand about ineffectually. “Maybe he should stay with you.”   
  
He thought Warrick looked slightly embarrassed for a moment, but the looks slid quickly into relaxed concern. “I think he’d wonder why you changed your mind. Give it some time. Besides, I thought you’d want some time with him. You’ve been as eager to get him back as we all have.”   
  
_You have no idea._  Gil just sighed into his glass and took another sip. He’d had more than a few and was starting to feel the distinct tingle of drunkenness creep up on him. He set the glass down and turned back toward the laughing group that was now heading back into the house. Nick was dressed casually in jeans that hugged all the right places and a black t-shirt that served to show off how thin Nick had become in the last year. Gil couldn’t stop his gaze from wandering up Nick’s back to his neck, where the black of the mystery tattoo peeked out at the collar.   
  
“Hey, Rick?” It probably wasn’t any of his business, but the tattoo had bothered Gil since he saw it at the prison. “Did you know Nicky got a tattoo?”   
  
Warrick sighed heavily beside him and ran a hand over his face. “Yeah, I saw that in the hospital. Must have been pretty recent.”   
  
“Do you know what it is?”   
  
“I-I didn’t see the whole thing, but… yeah. I think I do.” Gil turned at Warrick’s tone. It was soft, and laced with more than a little bitterness. Gil’s stomach clenched as he waited for Warrick to continue.   
  
“You’ve heard of the Perros Negros? ”   
  
“The Black Dogs? Sure, they’re a gang in central Vegas, right? Based in… Phoenix, maybe?”   
  
“Yeah, well. Their symbol is a coyote skull. The tips kind of curl up and around…”    
  
Gil looked back quickly toward the house. Nick was silhouetted in the door, and as he threw his head back, laughing as Catherine punched him lightly in the arm, Gil could see the distinct curl of a coyote skull under Nick’s ear.    
  
He looked back at Rick, who wore a tired expression. “But, no. Nick didn’t join a  _gang_ . Why would do that?”   
  
“I don’t think he did. I think. Damn.” He looked away toward the sun setting in distance. “That symbol isn’t just used by members use to identify themselves. It also denotes territory. Property.”   
  
Gil felt the world spin violently beneath him.  _Property._  It hadn’t even occurred to him, but it made perfect sense. All the fights, all the scars, the hollow look in Nick’s eyes. They had made him their toy, their plaything; good, kind, sweet Nick who wouldn’t know their intentions until too late, and who wouldn’t know how to fight it once he did. As often as Gil had imagined what life inside must have been like for Nicky—the isolation, the bitterness, the loneliness, even the violence—he’d never thought that anyone could take away Nick’s humanity so completely. Gil had never felt so sick in his life. Looking at Warrick, he could tell that Rick felt it too from the way his hands were balled in tight fists at his sides.   
  
“Jesus.”   
  
Warrick looked back at him and nodded tightly. “You gonna finish that?” He pointed at Gil’s glass, still sitting on the seat beside him. If he were Warrick, with that horrible knowledge bound up inside him for the last week, he’d need a drink too.   
  
“You go right ahead. I don’t think I should drink anymore.” Gil’s voice was reed thin, and throat was tight.  _This can’t be happening._   
  
Warrick gave him a half smile and downed the sweet drink in one swallow. He stood and tilted his head toward Catherine and Marissa. “We better head out. You take care of him.”   
  
“I will.”    
  
As the door closed behind his team, Gil turned to see Nick stuffing paper plates and used cups into the trash in the kitchen. His arms were tan, strong, and Gil could see a small, pale line across one palm. He wondered when Nick had received that particular scar; whether he’d won that particular fight. He fought down the irrational urge to throw something heavy at the wall.   
  
“Nick. Stop. You don’t have to do that.” Nick paused as Gil fought for the right words, but they all failed on his lips. Nothing he could think of would make any of this better.    
  
“Least I can do,” Nick replied without even looking up. He hadn’t looked at Gil all night, not since he’d said goodbye to his parents at Gil’s doorstep. Gil wondered how much of that night Nick remembered. Wondered if Nick thought he was unwelcome.   
  
“You’re a guest here. For as long as you need.”   
  
Nick tied the top of the bag off with a tight knot, and carried toward the front door. “Then I’d better start earning my keep.”   
  
“Nick,” Gil caught his arm in the doorway and immediately regretted it. Nick’s skin was warm under his fingers, and up close he could see the warn lines around his eyes that proved neither of them had been sleeping well. Gil thought he’d sobered instantly after his conversation with Warrick, but he suddenly felt fuzzy, like the world was moving too fast, or he was too slow.    
  
Nick looked at Gil’s hand on his arm, but didn’t try to pull away. Staring at a place somewhere over Gil’s shoulder, he asked, “Why are you doing this? If this about earlier this week, I’m sorry, man. It was stupid and I’m sorry. You don’t need to babysit me…”   
  
Gil registered that Nick was talking, that Nick was  _apologizing_  again, but he was standing so close, Gil’s hand still wrapped around his forearm. The fuzziness was joined by a low hum now that drowned out the sound of Nick’s voice, and Gil tried to concentrate on Nick’s face, on his lips, knowing this was important. But he found his eyes darting from Nick’s lips—so close, and disconcerting in their own way now that Gil knew what they tasted like-- to the line of black snaking out from Nick’s collar. Nick noticed him staring, and finally moved to pull his arm away.    
  
Gil’s body moved of its own accord, and he tightened his hold and dragged him closer until their foreheads were almost touching. All he could see now were Nick’s eyes, so dark and wide and uncertain. He still couldn’t think of a single thing to say that would make any of Nick’s pain go away, but the need to do  _something, anything_  was so strong he was barely surprised when his lips met Nick’s, opening, holding him there with one hand at the back of his neck.   
  
Nick answered with a strangled sound, dropping the bag and wrapping an arm around Gil’s neck. Their bodies slammed into each other with what felt to Gil like the power of a neutron bomb, and he was suddenly hot everywhere. His ears still buzzed, and he was dizzy from lack of oxygen, and from Nick, who was pressing him into the wall. They both shuddered as Gil’s thigh slipped snugly between Nick’s, and Nick suddenly went boneless in Gil’s arms.    
  
Gil pulled back, panting, and saw that Nick’s eyes were now inky black, shimmering slightly as he swayed in Gil’s grasp. His cheeks were pale, and Nick’s voice was breathless, almost a whisper. “Anything. I’ll do anything you want.” He leaned closer, his lips barely brushing Gil’s, but sending sparks to his toes. “Anything.”   
  
And with a sudden rush, Nick’s voice was clear over Gil’s now-rapid heartbeat, and a slow chill spread through his chest. He stiffened as Nick’s hand fumbled with the button of his trousers, and Gil felt suddenly ill.    
  
_He’d do anything. He’d let me fuck him in the hall if I wanted._ This wasn’t Nick. Nick was playful and sexy and Nick had his own needs, his own wants. Nick wouldn’t be this… easy. This pliant. It was so terribly, horribly  _wrong_ , that Gil pushed Nick away, hard, Nick’s back hitting the opposite wall with a thud.    
  
Nick’s lips were parted and panting, his eyes filling with confusion. Gil wanted to  _yell at him_ , ask “Why did you let me _do_  that?” But he didn’t trust his own voice. He walked quickly down the hall to his bedroom and shut the door, leaning heavily on the other side.    
  
_He can stay with me._  Brilliant idea, Grissom. Now he had to figure out a way to apologize to Nick and to assure him that wouldn’t ever happen again. It had felt so good, better than the first kiss, better than any kiss Gil had ever had, but there was no way he could take advantage of Nick that way. Not now. Not after he finally understood what Nick had been going through the past year.    
  
What had just happened was a studied reaction to the demands of outside stimuli. Gil was certain Nick was just responding to what Gil had been projecting, feeling like he owed something to Gil for letting him stay, and if Gil wanted sex, then Nick was prepared to give it. Just trying to earn his keep, after all.    
  
He dreaded the conversation though, and the knowledge that Nick would probably leave out of some mixture of embarrassment, anger, and humiliation.    
  
Gil lay down on his bed and wiped at his eyes. He wasn’t one to run from what had to be done, but the conversation could wait until morning.   
  
When he woke some hours later it was still dark and he rolled stiffly out of bed and walked to the bathroom. The house was deathly still and Gil paused in the hallway, listening for signs of movement. But there was nothing.   
  
He looked outside, glancing up at the streetlights before his eyes settled back on his driveway.    
  
His truck was gone.   
  
And so was Nick.   
  
**


	3. Within Without: Part 3 (of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Nicky's hell lasted more than a day? How long would it take Gil to get him back?

The highway was deserted and the headlights of Gil’s truck barely made a dent in the darkness. Nick had forgotten that the world could get this dark. In prison, even at night there were small lights all over the place so the guards could keep a watchful eye. And Vegas was never dark. At night, it lit up like a Christmas tree, or a never-ending carnival. He’d left the lights of Vegas hours ago with no clear idea where he was going, only that he couldn’t stay. The memory of the ringing silence of Grissom’s hallway was louder than the engine of the truck, or the radio station clipping in and out as he drove.

He’d stood in that hallway for a long time, his mind racing to catch up with what had happened. It was all a blur after he walked out of the kitchen. The whole encounter could have taken seconds, or hours. All he knew was that Gil’s mouth was sweeter than he’d thought he would be, and he was stronger too, and the kiss shattered Nick’s self control on impact. Suddenly, it was as though he was watching it happen, trapped outside what should have been a perfect moment as Gil pulled him closer, his fingers warm in Nick’s hair. Gil moaned exquisitely at one point—all need and power-- and Nick is pretty sure he’ll never forget it, or the way his knees almost folded at the sound.

And just as suddenly as it began, it was over, and Nick was staring at Gil Grissom’s face and finally seeing the horror reflected there. Nick had watched himself plead, beg for it, and as Gil walked away unable to look Nick in the eye, he could hear Carlos whispering in his ear. _You like that, don’t you, you fucking slut. Say it. Beg for it._ And he had. Nick had begged Carlos for it, because the alternative was not an option.

And he’d begged Gil too, because he could. Because Gil’s skin was warm and Gil kissed like candy and it was _Gil_. But Gil wasn’t Carlos, and Gil wanted… Nick had no idea what Gil wanted. All he knew as he stood there was that he couldn’t face Gil Grissom in the morning. So he ran.

His cheeks flushed hot despite the coolness of the truck and Nick wiped angrily at his eyes with the back of his hand. He pushed the scene to the back of his mind and tried to focus on the empty road ahead. The kiss could have been borne of curiosity, or pity, or Gil’s misplaced sense of duty, or maybe of something more. But Nick couldn’t let himself dwell too much on that last heartwrentching possibility because he’d fucked it up. If there was anything there to begin with, he’d fucked it up royally now. He was fleeing the state in Gil’s stolen vehicle, and he’d taken some cash too, left sitting on the table under his keys.

He had nowhere to go and since he refused to think about Gil, he focused on his parents, and on Warrick and Cath and Sara. But all he could see was their sad disappointment, and his mother’s frantic worry, and how he had no options left. If he kept going, he could make it over the Mexican border in a day and never see them again. If he were caught, he’d go back to prison.

He felt himself start to shake and his vision blurred for a moment too long. If he started driving erratically, he’d be pulled over for certain. He turned off the highway and headed down the long exit that wound toward Lake Mead. Pulling off to the side of the road, he cut the engine and jumped from the truck. He managed to take in two huge, gulping breaths before his body was overcome with harsh, wracking sobs. He slid down the door and buried his head in his knees and, for the first time since Gil came to see him in prison, came to set him free, Nick let himself cry.

When he finally opened his eyes, Nick could see the faint glow of the sun beyond the strange outcroppings of rocks on the horizon. The warm desert wind was picking up and he stretched his arms over his head and stood. His face was stiff from dried salt tears and his body ached. But whatever had been chasing Nick since he fled Gil’s house earlier was gone. He felt oddly empty. Hollow.

He didn’t even startle when he heard voices approaching from the direction of the lake. Grissom would have noticed he was gone by now. The cops would be looking for him. He rubbed at his cheeks and hoped they wouldn’t notice the redness of his eyes. _Never let ‘em see you cry._ That was one more lesson he’d learned the hard way.

Glancing at the truck, Nick decided it wasn’t worth it to try and make an escape. They’d catch him eventually. He wasn’t smart enough to live on the run. Wasn’t savvy enough. He wouldn’t put up a fight. It didn’t much matter anymore. As he watched, two figures came stumbling out of the brush just south of him. Nick squinted in the pre-dawn light to try and make out the badges, the guns drawn. But as they approached one of the pair fell to the ground. Nick’s eyes widened, and he could hear a man’s cry for help. He took off toward them at a run.

Getting closer, Nick could see the figure on her knees was a girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old. The man, clearly older, waved frantically as Nick approached. “Help me! Please!” He fell to his knees next to her. “Nicole! Nic! Please, honey. We’re almost there.”

As Nick reached them, he could see the girl fighting to stay conscious. Both of them were dusty and sweat-streaked, and the girl’s legs trembled as she tried to stand. “Whoa, there.” Nick put his arms out to steady her, and gently pushed her so she was sitting on the ground.

“What’s going on here?” He kept his gaze on the girl, looking for signs of trauma, but she seemed unhurt.

The man grasped the girl’s hand. “My daughter, Nicole… we got lost last night, just looking for a good place for constellation gazing. I can’t find the campgrounds, and she just started to shake…”

Nick could hear the panic rising in the man’s voice. “Okay, man. It’s fine. Did she fall before? Hit her head?”

“No! No, she just… she’s so tired.”

Nick squatted next to Nicole and tilted her head up. Her pupils weren’t dilated but she was blinking rapidly. “I’d bet its dehydration, mainly. That and walking four miles from the lake in a t-shirt. Come on,” he placed her arm gently around his shoulders and lifted her to her feet. “I think there’s some water in the truck.” Nick prayed that Gil still kept a stock of water bottles in the back seat.

As they approached the road, the man noticed the identifying mark on the truck’s door. “You with the Rangers?”

“Nah, just… here.” Nick held Nicole steady with one hand, leaning her into her father as he opened the back of the cab. A six-pack of water, just where he’d remembered. Gil was at least predictable most of the time. Nick flushed slightly and handed a bottle to each of the campers. “Drink it slowly, now. Little sips.”

As they sat on the truck bed, Nick looked up to see the sun peeking over the ridge of rocks to the east. The sky lit up like a flame, and Nick could see the desolate beauty laid out for miles through the Valley of Fire. The girl coughed lightly next to him and he looked to see her holding her father’s hand. A lump caught in his throat and Nick slid to his feet. “Feeling better?”

Nicole nodded at him shyly, the bottle resting against her thigh. The man smiled gratefully and stuck out his hand. “Frank Jacobs. Thank you so much Mr…?”

“Just Nick.” He shook Frank’s hand and was shocked to find himself smiling back. “Come on. I’ll take you back to your campsite.” He helped them into the truck and they drove silently down and through the park until Frank pointed out a small camper under a threadbare tree.

“Thank you, Nick.” Frank’s smile was wide as he helped Nicole down from the truck. She startled as a large brown bird darted from under the picnic table.

“Look at that.” Nick crouched to get a better look.

Nicole knelt next to him. “What is it? Why doesn’t it fly away?”

“Roadrunner,” Nick replied, not taking his eyes from the bird. “They don’t like flying much.”

“What do they like?” She moved slightly and the bird ran toward the hiding shade of the tree. Nick turned to her and smiled, his eyebrows raised for effect.

“Big, juicy rattlesnakes.” Her eyes went wide and Nick laughed. “Really! A nice rattler is like a steak to one of these guys.” Nick looked up to see Frank watching them quizzically.

“Can I get you something to eat? Although I’m sure you have places to be.”

Nick felt his smile falter. He didn’t have anywhere to be. But suddenly the idea of staying here with Frank and Nicole made him feel like a fraud. If they knew who is was, what he was running from, Frank surely wouldn’t have offered. He’d spent the last hour feeling more like a real person than he had in a year, and the reality of his life weighed heavily in comparison. Nick declined politely and climbed into the truck, _Gil’s truck_ , the tight feeling in his chest returning with a dull snap. He waved to the Jacobs family and began his drive back toward the highway. When he reached the entrance ramp he idled for almost ten minutes, unable to make the truck turn one way or another. In the distance, a beat up motel sat alone beside a run-down diner.

**

“Any change?” Gil gripped the steering wheel with one hand and pressed down harder on the gas. He was going at least ninety already.

Brass sighed into the phone. “Gil, I told you I’d call if there’s any change. The truck’s still there.” He paused and Gil already knew what was coming. “Look, are you sure you don’t want me to send a uniform to check up on him?”

“No,” Gil replied more sharply than he’d intended. “It should be me.”

“He might not even be there, Gil.”

“I know.” He snapped the phone shut before Jim could continue. The GPS tracking units had been installed on all of the department vehicles eight months prior and Gil had no idea if Nick knew about them or not. All he knew was that Brass had pinpointed the truck on Highway 15 and it hadn’t moved in almost 4 hours. Either Nick had ditched the truck and hitched across the state line, or he’d stopped just short of running too far and was trying to figure out what to do next. _Or the truck flipped and he’s dead in a ditch somewhere,_ the little voice inside him kept interjecting. Gil’s speedometer hit a hundred and he felt eternally grateful to Brass for letting him borrow his car. No one would pull over a detective.

He almost passed the motel, tucked back behind a diner with an old wooden sign advertising flapjacks for two bucks a stack. But he’d been looking hard for the last ten miles or so and he caught sight of a black truck almost overshadowed by the green dumpster. A flash of his ID and the manager was more than willing to tell him about the young man who’d checked in a few hours before, paying in cash. Gil let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. _He’s alive, thank God,_ his rational mind repeated as he walked toward room 14. _He was a few hours ago, at least,_ replied the horrible, twisting feeling in his gut. Gil ran the last twenty feet.

“Nick?” He knocked on the door loud enough to wake the dead and waited. No movement was visible through the thick drapes. “Nicky? It’s Grissom. Open the door.” Nothing. Gil tried to ignore the pinprick feeling on the back of his neck and knocked again, this time reaching into his pocket for his Swiss Army knife. “Nick,” he called again through the closed door. “I’m not mad, okay? And I’m coming in whether you open the door or not.” He didn’t wait this time; he just set himself to jimmying the lock with the screwdriver and thanked every deity he could name for cheap motel doors.

The door swung open soundlessly and Gil took quick stock of the room with its late-60’s era furnishings worn of most of their varnish and one large bed with a noticeable sag in the center. Nick wasn’t on the bed, though, or on one of the tacky plastic chairs. He was sitting against the bed on the floor, eyes fixed pointedly at the wall. _At least they’re open,_ noted the sickening voice, and for once Gil didn’t tell it to shut up.

Crouching on the floor next to Nick, Gil put one hand out and placed it on his shoulder. Nick jumped, shrinking into the mattress at his back. “Gris?” His eyes refocused on Gil’s face.

All Gil could do was nod, and slump on the floor next to Nick. He finally registered how hard his heart was racing and wondered if it had been going that fast since Vegas. Probably it had.

“They coming for me?” Nick’s hollow words made Gil’s blood run a little colder.

“No one knows you’re out here but me and Brass, Nicky. No one’s coming.”

He felt the comforting heat of Nick’s body radiating close by and stifled a sigh when Nick moved a fraction father away. Just far enough that there was no chance Gil would touch him accidentally. Nick’s gaze fixed back on the wall. “’m sorry about the truck, Gris. I just…”

“Nick?” Gil cut him off quietly, grateful he didn’t have to see Nick’s eyes as he spoke. “I need to apologize for tonight. I never intended for that to happen, and there’s no excuse for it. I don’t want you to ever think that you aren’t welcome in my home. I just…” The sentence ran out as Gil struggled to compose himself. “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t look when Nick turned his head. Sitting there with Nick so close, Gil felt like they were back in prison with a big wall of glass separating them, keeping them from touching or talking openly. Though they’d never really talked openly before, never touched. Gil never let himself get close enough to Nick for any of that. Maybe if he had, something would be different—maybe Nick would have confided in him about Kristy sooner, maybe he would have pushed harder, maybe Nick would have been with him and not on the strip that night, giving a call girl a ride home. And now, Nick was fighting for his life again and all Gil had done was make it that much harder. He leaned his head back onto the mattress behind him and waited for Nick to speak.

When he did, Gil just about laughed. “You’re… not mad? About the truck?”

“No, Nicky. I don’t give a damn about the truck.” He looked up at last and Nick was watching him warily, like he was ready for Gil to… what? Explode? Yell? Kiss him again? He looked lost and incredibly tired.

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why aren’t you mad at me? You _should_ be mad at me.” Nick almost sounded angry. “I took money too, you know. Three hundred bucks. I stole from you and was gonna leave the state, and that thing in the hallway, and,”

“That wasn’t your fault, Nick.” Gil cut him off sharply. Nick was doing what he’d always done, taking all the blame. “I pushed too far and you ran. It was perfectly understandable.”

“I STOLE from you, Grissom!” Nick was on his feet like a shot, staring down at Gil with his hands on his hips. “You’ve got to be mad!”

“I’m not.” Gil stood, noting darkly that Nick stepped back immediately.

“Yeah, you are. I _know_ you, Grissom. You’re mad.”

“Fine! You want me to be mad? I am. I’m so god damn angry I can’t see straight. You want to know why?”

“YES!”

“Because you didn’t do anything wrong!” Gil’s hands balled in frustration at his sides. “You NEVER did anything wrong, and you were punished for it anyway! And I just stood by and LET them, Nick! I let them convict you, I let them lock you up, and nothing I did could fix it! Do you know why you’re standing here and not in prison right now? A fluke. A lucky accident. And I don’t know exactly what happened to you in there, but I have a pretty good idea. They picked apart the man I knew brick by brick, and I don’t know if we’re ever going to get him back. So yeah, I’m angry. I’m angry at the system, I’m angry with the DA, I hate Conrad Ecklie, and I would personally kill every single person who ever _touched_ you in there. But most of all, I hate _me_ , alright? And you should too.” Gil was breathing hard, and there was a bright stinging pain where his nails had dug into his palms.

“I don’t,” Nick’s voice was thin and watery.

“So why don’t you?”

“What?” he answered tightly.

“Blame me. Hate me. God _damn it_ , Nick! Don’t tell me you didn’t think it too. Don’t tell me there isn’t some part of you thinks I should I have done more, that I let you down.” Nick was frozen to the floor, staring at Gil with open anguish. The room was filled with the sounds of both of them struggling for raspy breaths.

“You didn’t… you didn’t know what would happen.” Nick sounded uncertain, and Gil blinked but didn’t drop his eyes. His throat was tight and hot.

“I should have.”

“…Yeah. You should have.” But it didn’t sound angry, just horribly broken. Gil’s knees buckled and he reached blindly for something to hold on to. All he found was Nick’s hand reaching out and he clung to it like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Nicky,” he managed around stuttering breaths. He was struggling for control, struggling not to lose himself in his grief in front of the one person who didn’t need to see it, and suddenly Nick’s arms were around his neck and he could feel cool, wet tears on his shoulder.

Nick was murmuring in his ear, hands running in comforting circles over his back as Gil struggled to listen. When he finally made sense of the words, Gil felt the world collapse in tiny pieces around him and gave up trying to stop the sobs now breaking through. Nick held on until they were done, whispering over and over until they both believed it.

“It’s okay, Gil. It’s okay. I forgive you.”

They sat on the floor after, Nick’s fingers still twined with Gil’s. Gil felt drained, exhausted, but better than he had in years. Looking down at their hands, Gil ran his thumb lightly over the scar on Nick’s palm. It was still jagged and rough, but Gil could see where parts were lighter and less noticeable as Nick healed slowly. Maybe someday it would disappear entirely.

“So.” Nick’s voice, low and rough from crying but laced with a note of amusement, cut into Gil’s reverie. “What now?”

Gil frowned in concentration. He wondered how much gas Nick had. “Well, I figure we can make the border in less than a day, but we’ll need to stop somewhere—maybe Albuquerque—for supplies. I can get my hands on ten grand in cash today, which’ll do fine until we’re well over the border. I should have liquidated some assets earlier, but no use thinking about it now.” Gil sat in thought for a long moment. The townhouse wasn’t useful, but he had a bundle in stocks that weren’t honestly doing much and he should have thought to call his accountant before he left to go after Nick. He’d thought enough to grab ID and some clothes, but not much more. If he could have a few more days, they’d be set, but if Nick wanted to go now, they’d make do.

He was startled by Nick’s voice calling him. “Grissom!”

“Hmm- what?” Nick was looking at him like he was insane. Gil thought grimly that Nick would think he was slipping. _One damn phone call, Gil, really._ Nick’s disappearing act had just caught him off guard.

“Where’re we going?”

“…Mexico. I mean, my Spanish isn’t great, but it’s closer than Canada and easier to avoid extradition. We could keep heading south if you wanted—Guatemala, maybe. They have this amazing cockroach down there that gets as big as,”

Nick shook his head in disbelief. “What… are you seriously talking about fleeing the country with me? I haven’t even been arrested yet. I took off because I panicked.”

“With every reason. The system screwed you royally last time, and there’s no guarantee it won’t again.”

“Gil…”

“You’re not going back there, Nick.” Gil’s voice was measured and quiet, but final. There was no way Nick was going back to that hell. Nick squeezed his hand until Gil looked up.

“You’d really come with me?” Nick sounded incredibly surprised and Gil wondered what Nick would think if he knew how long he’d had been thinking about this. He even had a little town picked out where no one would find them, near the coast. Ever since he’d met Greg, Nick had always wanted to learn how to surf.

“Of course.”

Nick’s shock turned into something else, something softer and sweeter and he reached a hand up to cup Gil’s cheek. He looked long and hard at Gil’s face as Gil realized his mask had slipped entirely. Seeing as it was just the two of them now, Gil didn’t bother scrambling to pull it back on. Nick had the right to know how Gil felt about him. He deserved the truth, even if it meant Nick would go forward on his own and leave Gil behind.

But all Nick said was “Well, I’ll be damned.” And he smiled. Gil’s heart stopped as Nick leaned in to kiss him chastely. Pulling back, he looked at Gil through heavy lashes and Gil noted his eyes were swimming again, changing from brown to that same inky black he’d noted in the hallway. As Nick leaned in again, Gil forced himself to turn away.

“Nick. You don’t have to… I’m not expecting anything in return here.” The words were much more steady then Gil felt.

“Okay,” Nick replied breathlessly as his lips brushed Gil’s jaw.

He cursed himself as he leaned involuntarily into the sensation. “Nicky, come on. I don’t… it’s not…” but Nick’s mouth closed over his with a groan. Nick’s tongue slid over Gil’s like velvet and Gil shuddered. The languid kiss didn’t speed up, but Gil found himself suddenly with a lapful of Nick Stokes as one strong thigh swung over his lap and landed with a thud on the carpet. Gil was trapped between Nick’s chest and the mattress at his back, Nick’s fingers twining in the hair at the nape of his neck. Gil struggled to open his eyes, cursing his traitorous hands as they found Nick’s hips and pinned them in place.

When Nick finally came up for air, Gil gasped and leaned his forehead into the crook of Nick’s neck. “I d-don’t….” he stuttered against the line of black etched into Nick’s tan skin. “I don’t ever want you to do anything you don’t want to do. Okay? I want you to want this. I _need_ you to want this.”

Nick tipped Gil’s head back, fingers tracing his lips. “I want this.” He ground his hips against Gil’s groin and Gil hissed but was more distracted by the way Nick’s eyes fluttered at the contact. Nick was hard already, and pliant under his hands, leaning into any change in pressure from Gil’s fingers. He didn’t look frightened, just flushed and slightly dazed. Nick’s hand tightened around the back of his neck, pulling Gil’s eyes to his. “Gil,” he pressed on, breathless. “I’ve always wanted this. You. Always you.”

Maybe there was more, but Gil cut him off with an impatient groan against his mouth. He had a feeling that he was lucky Nick was on top of him or he’d have floated away from the lightness filling his chest.

**

 _Thank God,_ Nick thought as Gil’s mouth opened under his, his hands sliding up Nick’s back and under his shirt. He wasn’t above begging at this point, and he wasn’t altogether sure that would have worked on Grissom anyway. Really, he hadn’t meant to kiss him, but Gil was babbling about Mexico and supplies and cockroaches, about _running away with him_ and Nick was completely at a loss until he saw Gil’s eyes. The shutters were gone and Nick could plainly see all the depth he usually hid behind science and distance and practiced indifference. They could go to Mexico, or Guatemala, or fucking Timbuktu for all he cared, as long as Gil kept looking at him like that.

Nick was sucked back from a vision of Gil Grissom topless and tan on a Mexican beach when Gil’s nails scraped lightly over one oversensitive nipple. His breath caught, and he pulled away just long enough to pull his shirt up and over his head so Gil could continue unabated. He didn’t even think about it until he heard a sharp intake of breath.

“Nicky…” A pale finger traced dark lines down Nick’s neck to his shoulder and Nick’s body dropped a few degrees without warning. He’d forgotten again, and now he scrambled for his shirt, wanting nothing more than to hide. He hadn’t told Gil what it meant, but watching Gil’s face twist into sharp anger as he stared down the coyote deep in Nick’s skin, he knew Gil understood. Somehow it was a relief, even as the shame flooded through him. He wouldn’t have been able to explain it, and he wouldn’t have wanted to lie. Gil grabbed his wrist as he twisted his shirt right side out.

“Don’t.” Gil’s mouth closed over his collarbone. The hot, wet pressure was enough to make Nick buck in surprise. As Gil pulled him closer, his mouth never leaving Nick’s skin, he threw his head back and rode the wave of sensation. It wasn’t until he felt the sharp scrape of teeth against his shoulder that Nick realized what was going on. _He’s trying to write over the tattoo, trying to cover it up._ He sobbed once and let his head fall forward onto Gil’s shoulder as Gil sucked once more, long and hard against his neck. “Nicky.” Gil said his name like a growl and Nick whimpered against his throat.

When Gil’s hands moved down to caress his thighs, Nick noted that they were trembling slightly. It was enough to make him brave again and Nick attached his mouth to the sensitive skin under his ear and sucked hard and fast before panting “Not enough skin” and tugging Gil’s shirt up and over his head. The slight silver that streaked Gil’s hair extended to his chest as well and Nick’s fingers twined there as he savored the sound of Gil Grissom struggling for control.

After that, it all got hazy. Nick tried to keep up, tried to memorize everything, but all he could do was latch onto pieces of Gil—the taste of salt at the hollow of Gil’s throat, the way his bicep flexed as he lowered Nick to the floor, the high whine he tried valiantly to cover as Nick’s hand snaked into his fly and closed around him. Gil’s hands were as methodical in bed as they were in the lab and Nick caught them lingering in places that made him arch off the floor or made him toss his head and scrabble for purchase on the worn carpet. He planted one chaste kiss but didn’t linger at all near the harsh scar still healing on his side, for which Nick was grateful. That moment in his life belonged nowhere near this one, and he guessed Gil felt the same way.

Gil peeled away his own trousers and then Nick’s, mumbling something with stunning concentration that was lost under the sound of Nick’s blood rushing through him like the Rio Grande. Everything was fast—his heartbeat, his breathing, Gil’s tongue tracing patterns on his skin. He gasped as Gil’s wide thigh slipped between his, rolling through the twin sensations of pressure and friction. It felt amazing and so hot and _Please, no_. He squeezed his eyes tight as a familiar tightness constricted across his chest. _Fuck. No. No no no._ He swallowed hard, eyes still closed, and willed it away.

“Nick?” he heard the concern in Gil’s voice and quickly hid his face in the crook of Gil’s neck. Gil ran his hand gently over Nick’s hip. The flush in his cheeks burned hotter now, and he gritted his teeth against the wave of anxiety that was threatening to drown him. _It’s Gil!,_ he tried to reason with his body. _You want this!_ But tension had taken hold in the pit of his stomach and he could feel some of his need abating as it was replaced by embarrassment and anger. He felt Gil go deathly still above him. “Oh, God. This is too fast.”

“No!” It was chocked and desperate and Nick clung to Gil’s neck. “I can… I can d-do this.”

“Nick,” Gil spoke softly against his cheek, fingers brushing lightly along his tensed shoulders. “Nothing you don’t want to do, remember? I need you to tell me if this is too fast. I need you to _say_ it, Nick.”

He pushed hard against it, but the bright, cold fear that had taken hold of Nick was stubbornly refusing to let go. He’d been with men before… _before_ , but his body had apparently been conditioned in the last year to regard any human contact as foreign, unnatural, unwanted. Reasoning with himself that Gil was anything _but_ unwanted failed miserably. His anxiety was palpable and blatantly unreasonable. He cursed in frustration, keeping his eyes closed. He felt Gil’s hand run experimentally down his lower back and Nick’s breathe caught painfully.

“Fuck,” he hissed into Gil’s neck. “I c-can’t. I _can’t_. I’m sorry.” He waited for the disappointed sigh, for Gil to pull away. But Gil just leaned back enough to look at Nick’s face. When Nick opened his eyes, Gil spoke softly.

“We have time.” And he kissed him soft and slow and deep, his hands not straying farther south than Nick’s chest. Nick felt the tension easing out of him in waves.

 _Plenty of time._ And Gil wasn’t going anywhere.

They somehow made their way to the bed, Gil folding over Nick like a heavy blanket and pinning him to the mattress. They fell asleep somewhere between kisses and Nick woke a few hours later to the amazing sight of Gil Grissom’s salt-and-pepper head on his chest, rising and falling with each easy breath. He smiled, watching for a few long minutes before his bladder began making notes of protest. Gil grabbed his arm as he tried to roll gently from under him, muttering an incoherent protest. Nick leaned in and placed a kiss on his temple. “Just hittin’ the bathroom, Gris. No worries.” Gil let his arm go and sighed against the mattress as Nick padded naked across the room.

He didn’t catch his reflection until he was turning off the light. He froze in wonder. The coyote skull was still there, harsh against his skin. But it was lighter somehow, dusky instead of black, and covered in small dark bruises. His neck had a few as well, and his arm… Nick turned this way and that in the bathroom, squinting at all the places marked by Gil’s mouth. His chest, his hip, his knee. Looking closely at the bruise on his upper arm, Nick felt his breathing quicken. Right under the bruise was the faint line of a scar—a cut he got his first month inside during a small fight in his cell. Nothing major. It hadn’t even needed stitches. Nick examined himself again and felt his knees go weak. Each one of Gil’s marks had been lovingly, painstakingly left on or near a scar. Gil was claiming him, but not in the way Carlos had. Gil was claiming Nick for the real world; he was rebuilding him, brick by brick.

Nick blinked away the tears as he heard Gil speaking in low tones on the other side of the door. When he opened it, Gil was sitting naked on the side of the bed, cell phone pressed to one ear.

“Yes, yes. We’re fine. No, Jim,” he looked up at Nick and smiled. “we’re just going to take our time. I’m calling in for the night, so just… don’t let anyone know you’ve heard from me, okay? I want them all to think we’re snug in our beds.” Nick leaned in the doorway and watched Gil openly. “I’ll let you know when I know, alright Jim?” He laughed and Nick grinned at the sound. “Yeah, I get that I’m paying your cab fare until your car is back. Alright. I will.” He hung up with a snap and tossed the phone onto the pile of clothes on the floor. His smile turned rueful as he looked Nick up and down. “Maybe I got a little carried away…”

Nick blushed and his heart skittered a bit in his chest. “No,” he replied breathlessly. “I think you did just fine.”

Gil actually blushed a little himself at that. “I’m going to make a few quick calls; why don’t you hop in the shower?”

Nick hid his disappointment at showering alone well. He let the warm spray wash away most of the soreness in his muscles, soaping up with the bar left on the counter. It smelled like the fabric softener his mom used, and Nick marveled at how decadent he felt in this dingy motel bathroom. But he had a new bar of soap that smelled like clean sheets, and a shower all to himself. He had almost convinced himself life wouldn’t be any better even at the Bellagio when a dark object ran past his line of vision and he yelped in surprise.

“Nick?” Gil yelled through the door. “You okay?”

“Fucking bug in the _shower_ , man! Scared the crap out of me!” Nick laughed shakily as he gingerly retreated to the opposite end of the tub.

“Don’t kill it!” The door swung open with a creak and Gil peeked his head in. “Water loving bugs are pretty rare this far in the desert.” He looked peered at the insect, now perched in the shadow under the soap dish. When he reached out to poke it, Nick swatted at his hand.

”Seriously. That’s disgusting, Gris.”

Gil looked up from the bug and his bright inquisitive eyes slowly melted into something darker. Nick shook his head. When he found his voice, it was hoarse and rough. “You gonna get in here, or what?”

Gil didn’t smile at all this time; he merely pulled the shower curtain closed behind him with a hungry look. Nick hissed as the tile pressed against his back, cold in comparison to his hot skin and Gil’s hotter mouth. He groaned as Gil’s body lined up against his, all muscle and friction and heat. Gil’s cock was rock hard against his stomach and Nick slid a soap-slicked hand down and swallowed Gil’s moan as he stroked him once firmly. Gil’s hands were flat on the wall on either side of Nick’s head, and he wondered for a moment why they weren’t _on_ him, _touching_. Then he remembered the night before, and Gil’s promise that he wouldn’t move too fast. Nick’s hand moved surely, stroking and pulling as Gil broke their kiss with a shudder. “Jesus,” he breathed against Nick’s throat. His arms were trembling and Nick smiled at Gil’s obvious self-control.

With his free hand, Nick reached up and slipped his fingers into Gil’s. He pulled his hand way from the tile and placed it on his hip. Gil’s eyes darkened and he opened his mouth to protest. Nick just shook his head again and guided Gil’s hand lower and over until his fingertips brushed Nick’s erection. He bit his lip at the contact and Gil growled low in his chest. “Nick, you don’t,”

But Nick arched wantonly into Gil’s hand, his own hand losing rhythm momentarily as Gil gently closed around him. “Please, oh GOD!” he cried out as Gil stepped closer.

They tried kissing again, but spent most of the next few minutes swallowing each others muted groans and whimpers. Gil came first and Nick marveled at the sight—how threw his head back and shook in Nick’s arms, his body flushing from neck to torso. Spent, he rested his forehead softly on Nick’s shoulder and picked up his strokes where he had left off--up, over, down, tug, repeat. It was methodical and precise and infuriatingly slow. Nick whined, high and keening in Gil’s ear. At each new sound, Gil sped up just enough to keep Nick perpetually on the edge. When Nick finally came, he screamed Gil’s name and barely kept from cracking his skull on the wall behind him. They stayed there, pressed together from shoulder to kneecap until they could both stand unassisted.

Gil rinsed himself in the now-chilly water and glanced at Nick, who was still tentative about moving on legs made of jello. “You’re… that was okay, right?”

Nick chuckled and stepped out to meet him under the spray. “You have got to stop second guessing yourself, man. That was way better than okay.”

Gil grinned and kissed him quickly, then turned off the water and climbed out, wrapping them both in threadbare towels and walking back into the room.

“So,” Gil’s voice was matter-of-fact as he rummaged through his clothes to find his underwear. “Where to now?”

Nick looked at him questioningly. “You mean…”

“North or south. East or west. Mexico, or home.”

Nick was dumbfounded. Surely Gil didn’t still think...

“I meant it Nick,” Gil’s voice was quiet and reassuring as he pulled on his wrinkled shirt. “If you don’t want to risk it, we can go today. No one will know we’re even missing until tomorrow. If you want to go home and see what happens, that’s fine too. Just know that I’m ready to go, any time. You just say the word.”

There was really no response that Nick could think of to articulate the swirling emotions of shock and trust and pure, unadulterated _joy_ at that small speech, so he just stepped forward and held him tight. Gil’s arms encircled him and Nick choked up as the feelings coalesced into one word-- _safe_. When his throat opened up enough for him to speak, he didn’t raise his head, murmuring roughly against Gil’s damp skin. “Let’s go home.”


	4. Within Without: Part 4 (of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Nicky's hell lasted more than a day? How long would it take Gil to get him back?

The drive back to Vegas was uneventful and left Gil plenty of time to think. Nick was obviously not prepared to get the hell out of dodge quite yet, and Gil was more than a little grateful for that. It was premature and not a little rash. And besides, they had to wait at least three days before Gil’s bonds were available as cash. He allowed a small smile remembering his accountant’s voice on the other end of the line earlier that day. “Mr. Grissom, you really can’t expect me to work miracles overnight! It’s over fifty thousand dollars and… are you in some sort of trouble, sir?” Gil had glanced at the bathroom door, imagining Nick naked on the other side. His body reacted with an almost overpowering tug to go join him. Trouble? Yeah, Gil was in some serious trouble.

Gil glanced in the rearview mirror every few minutes to make sure the truck was still there. He tried hard not to wonder what Nick was thinking during his own quiet drive. The only thing that was clear to him was that Nick had forgiven him in that little room, and he’d meant it. He’d entrusted Gil with his body, and pushed past his year of horrifying conditioning to refuse him when things had gotten too intense. Nick hadn’t seen his face at the time or he would have been surprised at the smile there. There was only one thing Gil wanted more than to fuck Nick Stokes, and that was to hear Nicky being _Nicky_ again. The refusal had been pure Nick-- more than a little apologetic and entirely firm-- and Gil’s heart warmed thinking about it. Nick was the important part of this whole equation. They really did have plenty of time for the rest.

They pulled into the parking lot of the PD a bit after sundown and Jim was waiting, arms crossed against his brown suit.

“Took you long enough,” he noted as Gil and Nick climbed out of their vehicles and walked over to meet him. Jim took a long, squinting look at Nick and Gil suppressed a grin as Nick tugged nervously at his shirtsleeves. Unfortunately, the tugging pulled the shirt away from his neck. Jim noticed the bite mark at the same time Nick realized what he was doing. Gil cleared his throat loudly and pushed Nick lightly back toward the truck. He dropped a set of keys in Jim’s hand and followed quickly, but not quickly enough to miss the chuckle and the muttered “Clearly had better things to do…” as Jim climbed into his car. Gil knew there was a reason Jim was one of his best friends.

The ride to Gil’s was comfortably silent, and he took that as a good sign. Nick spent most of the drive looking out the window with a small smile, reaching over to squeeze Gil’s hand for a quick second as they pulled into his drive. Gil turned off the truck.

“We’re home.”

Nick just blinked at him for a moment, and Gil grinned until Nick grinned back.

Nick stumbled in the foyer, cursing as he tripped over a pair of Gil’s hiking boots. Gil caught his arm to steady him and ended up with Nick wrapped snugly around his side. A moment later Nick’s head was tucked under his chin and Gil sighed as Nick’s tongue traced a hot path across his neck. He didn’t want to move, to break contact, but Gil’s knees were still recovering from their afternoon on the floor. “Bedroom,” he managed as Nick’s fingers slipped under the hem of his shirt. Nick’s reply was incoherent but affirmative, though he didn’t seem to want to break his contact with Gil’s skin anymore than Gil did.

They fumbled through Gil’s townhouse and Gil winced when he hit the doorframe with a thud. But Nick had pulled their shirts off somewhere near the living room and took that moment to scrape a fingernail roughly across Gil’s nipple and his gasp was suddenly a lot less about the throb in his back. Nick pulled away, smiling, and tugged off his boots before peeling off his jeans. Gil followed suit and allowed himself a private smile at Nick’s obvious enthusiasm. He’d been ashamed of his marred skin in that hotel room, ashamed of what those white lines—and the black ones—meant. Gil had been overcome with the need to erase every one of those lines, covering them with bites and bruises that signified love winning over violence. Looking at Nick now, stark naked with tiny purpling marks giving him a polka dot look in some places, Gil though maybe he _had_ gotten a little carried away. But Nick didn’t seem to mind.

They were barely on the bed before Nick was surging up and into him, his cock pushed hot into Gil’s stomach. Their kisses were not the sweet, languid ones they’d shared in the hotel. They were fueled by some basic need in Nick, and fanned by Gil’s astonishment that this was _Nick, in his bed, under his hands_. They rocked hard into one another until Nick growled low in this chest, shifting to increase the pressure, the friction. Gil was momentarily caught off guard, and as he put more weight on his arms for balance, his cock slipped between Nick’s thighs. Nick stiffened immediately, and Gil froze. Nick wouldn’t look at him this time either, eyes squeezed shut as he muttered “Fuckfuckfuck” through clenched teeth.

Gil planted a series of small kisses along Nick’s jaw. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Nick.” Gil willed his body to take the hint here, that Nick wasn’t ready for this, but Gil was ready, he was _so, so ready_ , and his legs shook with the effort of keeping still with Nick warm and panting underneath him. He wanted to be connected to Nick, to crawl inside his skin and bury himself there so no one could separate them again, wanted Nick to feel that too. But while Nick was obviously on board, his body obviously wasn’t. They stayed frozen in place for a long minute, neither speaking as they tried to get themselves under control. But Nick was clearly losing his argument with himself and Gil’s own need was threatening to drown him. When Nick’s cursing turned to another whispered apology, Gil kissed it away harshly and leaned in to talk directly in Nick’s ear. He could barely recognize his own voice under the layers of want.

“Do you think… do you think you could fuck me?”

Nick’s eyes snapped open, hands tightening on Gil’s shoulders. Gil met his gaze as steadily as he could manage. Nick’s breath caught for moment before his hand came up to pull Gil down into a crushing kiss. “Yeah,” he spoke directly into Gil’s searching mouth, “yeah, I think I could do that.”

Gil’s groan of relief shook the mattress and he hooked a hand under Nick’s neck, flipping them cleanly until Nick’s body covered his, one lean thigh pressing between his. Nick pulled back until he could see Gil laid out beneath him. “God, Gil. Have you ever…?”

Gil’s laugh was slightly hysterical. “Been a while, but yeah. In the nightstand.”

Nick understood and Gil saw his hands shake as he retrieved a condom and some lubricant from the drawer. Gil’s kiss was meant to be reassuring, but he felt his own body start to shake as well when Nick’s slick hand slid between his legs.

“Gil?” Nick’s voice was husky and uncertain. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Even in his haze, the irony wasn’t lost on Gil. He took a deep breath. “I want this. I promise, Nick.”

Nick nodded, unsmiling, and set to loosening Gil up. One finger was okay, and Gil breathed through until the stretch dulled into a pulsing rhythm. At two, Gil’s body took a little longer to adjust and Nick planted quiet kisses along his shoulder, murmuring calming words against Gil’s skin until he’d relaxed into Nick’s touch. At three, Gil was beginning to think this was maybe not a good idea after all, but then Nick twisted his fingers just an inch, and Gil gripped the headboard as shining sparks rained through his vision. He was incredibly hard, and he could fell Nick panting, straining against him. The feeling of _needwantnow_ surged through him again, and Gil cried out. “Now, Nicky, please!”

Nick moved quickly, Gil’s legs wrapping around him as he slid in fast and hard. He looked shocked for a minute, unsure as Gil’s breath hitched from the hot burn and the hotter pleasure. Gil urged him on with the rise of his hips and Nick found a rhythm, Gil opening more with each stroke. Nick’s soothing tone devolved into muttered curses and Gil drowned in a wave of _God_ and _fuck_ and _sogood_. He could feel Nick’s rhythm breaking, and when Nick reached down grasp his now painfully hard cock, Gil came almost instantly with a stuttered shout. Nick drove into him while he fell, and he reached out to hold on, to keep sane, since nothing in the world could keep him sane right now but Nick, and Nick had driven him crazy in the first place.

When he finally came around, Gil found Nick tracing and retracing an old scar on Gil’s shoulder. He blinked in question when Gil opened his eyes. “You okay?”

Gil felt pretty okay—sore, but okay—but he still couldn’t quite find his voice, so he nodded sleepily.

Nick smiled. “That was pretty much… unexpected.”

“Yeah,” Gil managed. Nick just kept looking at him with the same wondering expression, and he wanted to look back, but his eyes drifted shut and he slept better than he had in over a year.

Four days later, they’d settled into a happy routine of breakfast over the paper—world events for Gil, sports page for Nick—followed by mind-numbing sex before Gil left for work. Gil had rented a car for Nick and he spent those long nights driving around a lot, as far as Gil could tell. He was always home when Gil got back, though, and he chalked it up to Nick just enjoying the freedom driving gave him. Besides, if Nick was going to bolt again—which Gil was giddly sure he wasn’t—the rental car was also equipped with GPS, a fact he informed Nick of as he dropped the keys in his hand. Nick had just laughed and kissed him in the parking lot.

The fifth night, Gil sat thoughtfully—and gingerly—at his desk poring over a case file. Sex with Nick was pretty much amazing but Gil thought he should take his own advice and say no every once and awhile. Sitting was become a minor annoyance. Luckily, he always walked a little oddly anyway. Besides, Nick was getting more and more relaxed in bed, and Gil had managed to slip one slick finger inside him in the shower that evening, Nick responding with a shudder that was definitely not unwelcoming. Gil grinned down at his file and shook his head. The one negative of Nick being back in his life was the distraction of knowing Nick would be waiting when he got off work. He hadn’t done a single hour of overtime all week.

When Catherine showed up in his office, closing the door behind her and sitting down in the chair across from his desk, Gil held up a finger for her to wait a moment while he finished reading a ballistics analysis from Bobby. When he looked up, she was glaring at him. “Sorry, didn’t want to lose my train of thought.”

“What the fuck are you doing, Gil?”

He blinked in confusion at her obvious anger. “Doing about what?”

She settled back in the chair, arms crossed. “Do you really think sex is going to _fix_ him?”

 _Oh. Okay, then._ Gil closed the file and leaned heavily on his elbows. “That’s not what I’m trying to do, Catherine.”

“Like hell it’s not! I know what happened to him in there, I watched him fall apart week after week. I watched him become this horrible other person and you can’t make that go away with sex. In fact, sex might be the _worst_ solution to that particular problem.” Her words were clipped and harsh.

“I know, and I promise I’m not doing anything to force him.”

Catherine rolled her eyes. “Of course you’re not raping him,” Gil winced at the word, “but that doesn’t mean he’s ready for any of it.”

“I think he is. He thinks he is. And he’s happy, Catherine.”

“You mean you’re happy.”

Gil’s reply was soft and immediate. “Yes.”

She sighed, anger ebbing away. “It’s not enough, Gil. He needs more than that. He needs to talk to someone, work out what’s going inside his head.”

“I know,” Gil nodded and sat back. “He isn’t ready for therapy yet. I’ve told him it’s a good idea, and he knows it, but he wants to wait out the investigation. I think the idea of working through his prison time when they might send him back feels like too much right now. But you’re right Catherine. Sex isn’t a quick fix.”

“But it sure is fun?” She asked with a quirked smile and a shake of her head.

Gil smiled back cryptically and she laughed. “Okay, fine. You win. He’s smiling, so I’ll let it pass for now. But if you fuck this up, I’ll kick your ass.”

“Understood,” Gil replied with mock seriousness. She stood and walked toward the door, stopping when Gil called her.

“Cath? Just… when did you know?”

She smiled at him fondly. “About how he felt about you? About two weeks after he started this job. About how you felt about him?” She paused, thoughtful. “About two weeks after he went to jail.” She paused again and grinned wickedly. “About your new exciting sex life? About ten minutes into shift on Tuesday when you refused to sit for the entire staff meeting.”

She winked and strode from the office, leaving Gil to blush crimson. He really had to learn to say no once in awhile.

It was hours and three crime scenes later when Nick showed up at the lab in jeans and a brown suede jacket, grinning at Gil from the doorway of his office. “Thought you could use a nice meal out,” he looked at Gil’s haggard face with sympathy. “Long shift?”

“You have no idea. I have about half an hour of paperwork left, though. Think you can wait?” Nick hadn’t been to the lab since his release, and Gil could already see people in the hallway slowing when they saw him, some smiling, some just curious. “My couch is pretty comfy…” he noted by way of invitation.

“Nah. Got to bite the bullet and do the rounds sometime, right?” Nick was still smiling, but his shoulders tensed. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Gil spared a quick moment of sympathy for the volume of hand shaking Nick was in for before diving back into his caseload.

It was almost an hour later when Nick finally reappeared at his door, a laughing Bobby Dawson slapping him on the back and walking back to ballistics. “Man,” he said breathlessly as he sank into Gil’s couch. “I didn’t realize I had that many friends.”

Gil smiled and closed his case file. “I did.” He got up and crossed to the sofa, sitting close enough that their knees touched, but far enough that no one would see anything unusual. “A little overwhelming?”

“Just a tad,” Nick answered, but he was obviously pleased with the attention. “You ready to go? I’m starved.”

“Absolutely.” But as he moved to get up, Gil heard a soft cough from the doorway. They both looked up to see Brass staring down at them, bemused.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything…”

Nick moved his knee away from Gil’s and Gil narrowed his eyes at Jim. “As a matter of fact, you are _not_. We were heading to breakfast.”

“Well, before you go, I thought I’d drop by with a bit of official business.” An uncharacteristic grin lit up Jim’s usually stoic face. “Paul Griffin woke up last night, and other than some minor nerve damage, the docs think he’ll be just fine. He also had a pretty convincing story to tell me. So the death of Carlos Monongya has officially been deemed a case of self-defense and you, Mr. Stokes, are free to do… whatever you want.”

**

He didn’t know he was crying until Gil’s arms were around him. But as Brass closed the door with a quiet click, Nick let go and sobbed into Gil’s chest, letting strong arms soothe him through each wracking breath. His fingers clung to the back of Gil’s shirt, anchoring him to the one person who could keep him from floating away. It was relief, pure and simple, coupled with insane happiness and a sharp twist of vindication. Carlos, and the specter of Carlos that had threatened to suck him back into hell, was gone, and Nick would have to learn to deal with his part in that in his own time. But he was free.

He finally settled quietly, sagging against Gil in exhaustion as Gil’s fingers threaded through his hair. He sighed as light kisses were placed along his temple and his eyes fluttered open enough for him to remember where they were. _Gil’s office. Oh, shit._ The walls of glass were just over his shoulder. He tried to pull away but Gil wouldn’t let him.

“People’ll see,” he mumbled into Gil’s neck.

“Don’t care,” was Gil’s strained reply, and when Nick looked up he saw tearstains on Gil’s face too, and reached up to trace them in awe. He had never, in all their years together, seen Gil Grissom lose it. Gil turned his head to kiss Nick’s palm lightly and Nick let his forehead fall back to Gil’s shoulder. They stayed like that for another ten minutes before Nick’s stomach rumbled and Gil chuckled in his ear. “Still up for breakfast out?”

“Are you kidding?” Nick untangled himself from Gil’s arms and sat back heavily. “I probably look like a raccoon.”

“I doubt I look much better. What do you say to home, pancakes, and a nice long shower?”

“Much better.” Nick could feel the smile on his face, and was amazed at how well it fit. “Also, I should call my parents.”

“Good plan.” Gil stood up slowly, wincing as he unbent. Nick was about to apologize for squishing him into the couch when he realized that wasn’t the cause. Gil caught his smirk and shook his head. “Oh, you just wait.”

Nick found he honestly couldn’t.

They tore out of the lab without running into anyone from the night shift and drove back to Gil’s. Gil beat Nick there by a few minutes and had the door open, pulling Nick inside with a laugh. Gil laughed the whole way to the bedroom and Nick decided it would be stupid to ask about pancakes at this point. Gil had him naked and whimpering in about ten seconds and Nick slid one leg snugly around Gil’s waist as Gil settled above him. Gil smiled and leaned in to kiss him soundly before asking, “You’re sure?”

“Oh, yes.” He pushed himself up on his elbows so he could kiss Gil again and found himself repeating the words over and over as Gil’s tongue traced over his teeth in agonizing strokes. Gil broke the kiss to reach into the nightstand and Nick enjoyed the expanse of skin before him. He lingered at the sensitive spot in the hollow of Gil’s throat, savoring the feel of Gil’s soft moans against his lips. Gil kept him distracted with caresses and whispered promises and when Nick felt Gil’s fingers pressing up against him, into him, he arched into the touch and sighed. There was no tightness, no slow burn. He was ready, completely ready and open and _fuck_ and he told Gil so, keening as Gil’s fingers twisted inside him.

“Nicky…” and suddenly the fingers were gone and Gil was there, his dick pressing into Nick so slowly, so gently that Nick couldn’t stop his choked sob at the tenderness, the restraint. And even as he sped up into his thrusts, it never reached the harsh intensity Nick always associated with fucking. It was like they were one thing, one entity, and Gil knew exactly what he needed because Gil needed it too. This wasn’t fucking, this was love-making, and the very thought was enough to make Nick shake apart under Gil, pulling him over the edge too, until they were both delirious and gasping, Gil’s face buried in the crook of Nick’s neck.

They both drifted into light sleep for a short time, but when they woke, neither wanted to move, even after Nick pointed out they were definitely going to need a nice shower. Gil lay half draped over Nick, fingers tracing lightly over his abdomen. When he spoke, it was soft, but intent.

“What do you want to do now?”

“Like I said, shower. And I haven’t abandoned hope for breakfast.” Nick scratched his nails lightly down Gil’s back and was rewarded with a shiver of appreciation.

“I meant now that its over. Now that you’re free to move forward.”

Nick blinked at the ceiling. He had absolutely no idea how to answer. “I guess… I guess I haven’t thought much about it. Haven’t let myself. Better get a job, huh? Maybe an apartment?”

“You can stay here as long as you’d like. You know that.”

“Man, I know you like your personal space.”

“That’s because I didn’t know there was anything better that could fill it.” Gil propped himself up on one arm and looked down at Nick. He looked serious, his brow furrowed in that Grissom way that meant he had something important to say and Nick swallowed reflexively. “I know that you have to figure out your own life, and I know that probably doesn’t include coming back to be a CSI.”

Nick smiled ruefully. “I’ve seen enough of the dark side of humanity to last a lifetime, I think. Not that I didn’t love my job, but…”

“I know.” Gil was still staring, and Nick reached a hand up to trace over his jaw until he smiled.

“Maybe something outside? I’m not keen on just jumping into lab work.”

“You’ll find something,” Gil said with assurance. “I also know that you might just want to get as far from here as you can, maybe go back home to Dallas for a while.”

Nick tried to interrupt but Gil cut him off with a shake of his head.

“Either way, I need you to know that I… I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, okay, Nicky? I want you to have all the space you need, but there is no way I’m letting go now. I’m not losing you again. I… I think…”

Nick watched him fumble and stammer and suddenly understood. He started to grin, and a small part of him wanted to make this easier on Gil, wanted to just say it for him, but watching Grissom tongue-tied was just too much fun. Finally, he just leaned up and kissed him quiet. He pulled away enough to see Gil’s eyes, and said, “You’re gonna have to say it first.”

Gil relaxed visibly and chuckled against Nick’s cheek. “I love you.”

Nick was going to say it, he really was, but Gil was still grinning and Nick kissed him hard and deep and figured Gil pretty much knew everything anyway.

**

Gil woke at his usual hour and staggered out from under Nick’s arm to the bathroom. Three steps from the bed, he stepped on something hard and had to put his arm out as he hit the wall with a thump.

“Nick…” He rolled his eyes and reached down to pick up the textbooks strewn over the floor.

“Hmmm?” Came a sleepy sound from the bed.

“Sweetheart, can you at least _try_ not to leave these on the floor? I’d like to be able to survive a trip to the bathroom.”

Nick blinked sleepily at him and frowned. “Sorry, must’ve fallen off the bed when I fell asleep.”

Gil shook his head fondly and rubbed at his toe. He navigated the maze of books to the hallway and was halfway through his shower when the glass doors slid open and Nick climbed inside. “I was wondering if I would be blessed with your company this evening,” he said just shy of teasing.

Nick pulled him close and kissed him, hands drifting in still-sleepy circles on Gil’s back. “I traded Mike’s shift for the weekend, so I’m leaving in an hour. No sense in being off when you’re away.”

“So this means,” Gil leaned in and nibbled the skin under Nick’s ear, “that you’ll be off work when I get back Saturday?”

“Uh huh,” Nick smiled and pushed Gil back toward the water. “And you’re off Sunday, I already checked with Cath.”

Gil could only imagine the teasing he would get for that, and was grateful he only had a half shift before his flight left for the conference. “So, do we have big plans for that weekend?”

“Well, I certainly do.” Nick’s intent was pretty clear as he took firm hold of Gil, tugging just enough that Gil hissed. “Four days, man. I better make sure you’ll remember me.” In all honesty, Gil really didn’t remember much after that.

The extra long shower led to lots of running around as Gil tried to pack and Nick hunted for his boots. They met back at the door, smiling and dressed, and Gil leaned in to give Nick a long kiss. “Do you have any idea how much I love that outfit?” he noted, smiling as he pulled away. The Ranger uniform wasn’t a look that everyone could pull off, but the tight slacks and olive shirt made Nick look both endearing and commanding. Even after a year, Gil still got a little hot and bothered sometimes just seeing him in it.

Nick laughed, leaning in for one last kiss before heading out the door with his keys in hand. “Yeah, well, you better. You see me in it every day.”

They climbed into their respective trucks and Nick shouted “Call me when you get to St. Louis” before backing down the drive and starting the long drive east to the park.

He called every night, and suffered happily through Nick’s bitching about his ornithology TA, and how the kid was barely out of diapers. He still assured Gil that the courses were just for fun, but Gil wasn’t betting on it. They’d had dinner with one of Nick’s advisors, and Gil had watched in awe as the conversation slipped further and further into obscure facts and figures. The professor’s wife had smiled at him in understanding and Gil’s tucked one more little piece of the puzzle that was Nick Stokes into his pocket. Nick was a big huge science nerd. Gil had fucked him the hall that night, Nick just dazed and laughing as Gil kissed him senseless.

The conference was fine—fun actually, since Gil’s cockroach team of Doyle and Watson had placed a respectable second in the relay. But by the time he pulled into their driveway, all Gil wanted was Nick.

He met Gil at the door and took his bag, going inside before he’d even gotten a hello kiss. Annoyed, Gil followed kicking his shoes off in the hall. When he found Nick in the bedroom and reached for him, he was surprised when Nick stopped him.

“I have something to show you.” Nick’s voice was rough and full of emotion but his eyes were shining and happy. Gil stood, waiting, as Nick slowly unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall to the floor. There was a large bandage covering Nick’s shoulder and Gil’s face was instantly stony with worry.

“What happened?”

“Just look.” Nick slowly pulled the bandage way with a slight wince and put his arms out for the full effect. “Warrick took me to a friend of his yesterday. I’ve been thinking about it for a while and it seemed like it was time.”

Gil just stared. In place of a roughly drawn coyote skull, Nick’s shoulder was covered in a flying eagle. It clearly wasn’t done yet, but the artistry was breathtaking, and Gil could see where the wing came up and curled lightly under Nick’s ear. “Can I…?” but he was already reaching, touching, tracing the bird over Nick’s skin.

Nick’s breathing was labored but he stood still and calm. “You like it?”

“I love it,” he whispered hoarsely. Nick was in his arms in an instant and Gil clung to him like a lifeline. “It’s you.”

And he could feel Nick’s smile in his skin, leaving an invisible mark that Gil would carry forever.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done, and I hope you all enjoy! It was much fun to write, and possibly the longest thing I’ve ever written (but somehow Nick and Gil lend themselves to epics, it seems.) This part is for [](http://janissa11.livejournal.com/profile)[**janissa11**](http://janissa11.livejournal.com/) , as per usual, and for [](http://apetslife.livejournal.com/profile)[**apetslife**](http://apetslife.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://schuyler.livejournal.com/profile)[**schuyler**](http://schuyler.livejournal.com/) , who still won’t read parts one and two, though she was gracious enough to beta this section. X-posted to [](http://oh-no-nicky.livejournal.com/profile)[**oh_no_nicky**](http://oh-no-nicky.livejournal.com/) , [](http://grisslash.livejournal.com/profile)[**grisslash**](http://grisslash.livejournal.com/), and my writing LJ.


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